


Heatworm

by eve_faust



Series: Heartworm [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Movie: IT (2017), Movie: IT Chapter Two (2019), Period-Typical Homophobia, all cws posted before each chapter, idk i'm really really shit at tagging, it Stephen king - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28939419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eve_faust/pseuds/eve_faust
Summary: He looked Richie up and down, a slight smirk tugged at one side of his lips and he said, “You put on weight.”“What?” He heard Eddie perfectly fine, but he just couldn’t believe that was what actually came out of his mouth. Richie’s heart beat faster, and he tried his best to focus on his breathing, just like he’d done with Jessi.“Shit, I mean— Not like in a bad way. Fuck.” Eddie was panicking now too. His face went red, and his hands started flailing in all different directions as he spoke. “You just got bigger, grew up, you know? I know how much you hated being so skinny.” Eddie took a deep breath, grounded himself, and continued, “You look good, is what I meant to say.”ORRichie and Eddie are now twenty-seven and haven't seen each other for the past decade. They dance around each other for six awkward chapters.If you haven't read Part 1 of this series, please go do so or this story may not make much sense :)
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Series: Heartworm [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119899
Comments: 14
Kudos: 26





	1. New York City

**Author's Note:**

> This is kinda a prologue? Idk it's super short, future chapters will be longer.
> 
> Flash backs are used a lot in this story, whole texts in italics are time jumps.
> 
> You all know the drill, CWs:  
> sex, drunk sex, references to being drugged, anxiety, trauma nightmares, homophobia, queer homelessness, underage drinking, queer violence, internalized homophobia, blood

The floorboards moaned under their footsteps, and the rustling of heavy chair legs against a wooden floor could be heard by the tenant living below Richie. He didn’t think this building was old enough to warrant creepy floor creaks though. Maybe it was only a testament as to how well he cared for this space. Richie liked to call it well lived in, but others just liked to call it a mess which was why whenever he did this, he liked to get right to the point. No sitting around to chat or have an extra beer—that’s what going out to the bars was for. Just like going home with strangers was meant for a good hour’s fuck if he was lucky and then parting ways. 

Richie closed his bedroom’s door as soon as he could, the only place he kept relatively neat aside from the overflowing hamper in the corner of the room, the place he spent the least amount of time in.  _ Danny…David…Darren _ …Richie knew it started with a  _ D _ , but he didn’t usually drink hard liquor, and he practically guzzled a couple pretentiously named drinks that  _ Dean…Derek _ ordered him.  _ Dylan _ was trying his very best at getting Richie’s clothes off, and Richie thought he might be too young, not in general but for Richie’s own comfort.  _ Darrel _ had a baby face. 

“Oh, wow,”  _ Dave’s _ tongue jutted out tenderly along his lip. 

Richie’s bare back pressed against his half made comforter. “That better be a good  _ oh wow _ .” He could barely feel his mouth moving. It felt numb.

_ Donnie _ hummed, dragging his fingers along Richie’s chest. “You’re kinda chubby, but that’s kinda hot.”

He wasn’t sure if that was actually a compliment or not, but he was too horny to actually care. Thanks to _ Drew _ —and Richie was really running out of  _ D _ names, maybe it didn’t even start with a  _ D _ —who couldn't keep his fucking hands off Richie’s crotch in the elevator. “How old did you say you were again?” Richie closed his eyes as  _ Dorian _ continued to rip at their clothes.

“Stop worrying. I told you I’m in college.” His hot tongue pressed flat to the column of Richie’s throat.

“That’s fucking weird, I could be your dad.”

His hips rolled down into Richie’s, a breathy chuckle fanned over Richie’s wet skin. “I thought you said you weren’t even thirty.”

“M’not, but you make me feel old.” Richie continued to be amazed at his ability to overshare even when he felt seconds from passing out while trying to hook up with someone he only met three hours ago.

“I’m twenty-one, grandpa. Chill.”

Richie didn’t remember getting naked, but the hand wrapped around his dick made it glaringly obvious. “ _ Fuck _ , what the fuck did you make me drink? Are you sure you didn’t drug me?” He thought it was strange to be brought back to his own apartment if he was roofied, but for a brief second he panicked. 

“Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?” His hand tugged lazily, and he mouthed at the scruff on Richie’s neck. 

“You have no idea,” Richie scoffed, eyes still closed and a hand falling in his own hair. 

“I’m starting to get one…” He pushed his hips back down into Richie’s thigh.

“Hey, what’s your name again?”

He pushed out a huff, hot over the corner of Richie’s jaw. “Really?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be an asshole, but I’m fucking out of it, man. And it’s been at least a couple hours since you told me.”

He clicked his tongue, “Richie, Richie, Richie.”

“See, you know  _ my _ name, it’s not fair.”

“ _ Shh _ …” He tugged hard before dragging his hand up Richie’s chest. “Adrian.”

“Huh?”

“My name’s Adrian.”

“Oh, sweet. I knew I was close.”

Adrian shook his head, letting out a little chuckle before curling his hips down, tugging at Richie’s bottom lip with his teeth. Except Richie could only feel the sharp press of Adrian’s hip bone into his stomach, of his teeth dragging along his mouth. He felt his body beat along with his heart, he could feel the reverberations in his head, in his brain. It made his whole body go fuzzy. There was a reason he stayed away from hard liquor now.

“Wait.” He swallowed hard, squeezed his eyes shut even tighter than before.

“ _ Richie _ ,” Adrian sighed, sat up, and pressed his hands down into Richie’s chest. “Are you gonna let me jerk you off or not?”

“Fuck, yeah. Just gimme a second.” He sat up himself, and Adrian rolled out of his lap. Being this drunk made him dizzy, made the knife twist in the pit of his stomach. He blinked his eyes open wildly, trying everything he could to center himself.

“Shit, you good? I swear, I really didn’t drug you.”

“No, I’m good. I just…I just uhm…need a second.”

“Listen,” he sighed, getting up from the bed. Richie couldn’t bring himself to look up from his own hands. “I don’t know what you want, but I have a feeling you’re not into this.”

And Richie had a feeling Adrian was getting dressed, getting ready to leave. “I’m sorry.” 

“Happy New Year, grandpa. Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Hours later, Richie woke up to his own heart beating in his ears, ripped out and screaming for help with every breath it took, then crushed in the overly callused, gritty hand of a man scared that Richie might look at him the wrong way. He couldn’t tell if it was his dad or his high school bully that held his heart in front of his face. Sometimes it was the people he cared about most that ripped their fingers through it. “Are these normal human hours?” he asked when Stan picked up the phone. “I can’t tell anymore.”

“It’s a little bit earlier than I’d like it to be, but I’d be getting up soon anyway for work.” Stan sounded tired, like Richie had just deprived him from those last sweet minutes of sleep before your alarm goes off. He probably had. “Another nightmare?”

He nodded even though Stan couldn’t see him. “Do you think it’s possible to have PTSD from like, I dunno, just childhood trauma or some shit?” Richie backtracked as soon as he said it, “Sorry, I called you at five in the morning, I shouldn’t be asking you life altering, existential questions right now.”

“It’s okay,” Stan yawned into the phone. “But probably, I dunno, have you told your therapist?”

“I mentioned the nightmares once before, but I think I downplayed them. Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m overreacting or not. I feel like I’m bothering her too much too.”

“Richie, she literally gets paid for you to ask her the kinda questions you’re asking me now.” Stan sighed. It sounded like he was maybe rearranging himself in bed, and then he grumbled something about coffee. “Tell her. She’s there to help you.”

He hummed, like maybe he wanted to question his therapist’s allegiance to him. Then he ended with a final, affirmative, “Mm-hm,” even if he didn’t feel as sure and certain as he sounded. 

~*~

_ Richie turned nineteen his first week in New York City. For a long while he worked at a cafe in lower Manhattan, and when he finally got fed up with couch hopping and moving in and out of shelters and food pantries, he decided to get another job working in retail, a department store to be exact. It was scary, working at a three leveled store that sold only clothing and being expected to know the product like the back of his hand. He fared much better making coffee at the tiny shop in West Village, but he was making more money with both jobs and that meant he’d be able to actually live some place instead of on the streets.  _

_ Eventually, he moved in with a coworker from the cafe. Nobody at the department store even liked his style choices, he doubted they liked him as a person very much either. On Friday nights after work—he could actually afford to take the weekends off now if he worked doubles throughout the week—he and his roommate would travel up to Greenwich Village from their small Chinatown apartment to go drinking. It was the first time Richie saw places that were made for people like him, that only allowed patrons like him, that catered specifically to people like him. He found out quickly that his roommate was the same, so they bar hopped from building to building, all of them servicing men who liked men and women who liked women and some people who were probably a little bit of both. And nobody looked over the shoulders to see if someone was watching. Nobody was handing out dirty looks the way Ms. Sanz used to hand out canned soup and beans to Richie every Wednesday morning. _

_ They made it routine, a tradition, to go every weekend. Richie liked it, and so did Joey, his coworker turned roommate. Too quickly they made the mistake of getting comfortable after months and months of Friday night bar hops, Saturday morning hangovers, and being reckless during the time in between. It was the summer of 1996. Richie had been twenty-one for a while now, and the rush of being able to spend their weekends (mostly) legally was exhilarating. One night in particular, he thought he might’ve been getting laid for the first time. And he meant actually getting laid, not like jerking himself and his best friend from grade school off at a high school Halloween party. Needless to say, he was excited albeit a little more drunk than usual now that he didn’t have to worry about getting caught with a fake ID on top of being gay. _

_ He wasn’t sure what anyone saw in his six foot gangly mess of a body—sure he’d grown a little bit broader, had some patchy stubble on his upper lip and along his chin, but he was no less skinny and long and strange. Richie was just glad they saw it, whatever it was. _

_ That Friday, he walked out of a bar hand in hand with another man. Joey had left for home shortly after Richie. “You’re okay with this?” he’d asked Richie on their way to somebody’s home. _

_ Richie shrugged, smiled, “Why not?” The bliss of his alcoholic safe haven not yet fleeting his mind as he leaned in for a kiss. The other man laughed as they passed by bar after bar, happy noises floating through the city’s sidewalk, and Richie pulled him in closer, pressed a tender kiss to his neck.  _

_ He didn’t hear the slur hurled at him, only felt it after a half full beer bottle was thrown at the side of his head. “Let me help you,” the other had insisted.  _

_ “I’m fine,” Richie shook his head, trembling hands instinctively covering his face. Even as his counterpart took his jacket off to blot at the cuts on his cheek and above his eyebrow, Richie pushed him away. “I’m fine.” _

_ “Let me walk you home at least.” Looking back, there was a bit of selfishness in the way he said that. Richie wished he would’ve taken him up on the offer. _

_ “I said I’m fine.” Richie went home alone that night and let Joey clean him up. Their tiny bathroom shared with two others smelled of iron and rubbing alcohol for the night, and he made Joey swear not to tell any of their others why the cracks in the sink stained red.  _

  
  



	2. Divine Intervention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie will make an appearance in chapter 3 :)
> 
> CWs:  
> biphobia, therapy, habitual symptoms of trauma, references to racism and its own trauma, references to self medicating, anxiety, shame surrounding mental illness

“Stan,” Richie sighed as he fumbled with the keys to his apartment. “Stan,  _ no _ . You can’t just  _ assume _ that he’s gay.” He kicked the door open as he wiggled his phone back into his hand from between his shoulder and cheek. “No. Stan! I thought you were supposed to be the logical one between the two of us.” He paused, waited for Stan’s response, and raised an eyebrow, “Oh? What kind of signs?” He waited again. “Shit, yeah, okay. Make your move, Staniel. The guy wants ya. Let me know how it goes.” Richie hung up, dumping his groceries on the floor and throwing himself onto his sofa. He sat back up when he felt a fork digging into his back and tossed it on the coffee table. He wasn’t the neatest person, but at least he could say that he could cook for himself and do his own laundry when he felt motivated enough. Right now, however, he didn’t think he had the energy to do so.

Richie reached out for his phone again, thinking of just ordering takeout for the night, but another call popped up on the tiny screen. He flipped it open, and held it to his ear again. “Bev?”

“Hey, Richie! Did you get Mike’s call yet?”

“Mike? No, was I supposed to?”

“Well, I’ll do the honors of passing along the invite then.”

“Do we all get to go down to Florida? Because—”

“ _ No _ , Richie. But we are all going to meet up. We’re thinking about New York City as our meeting point, considering you and Eddie are both already there and the rest of us aren’t that far off, except for a few, but we’re not certain yet. It’s been too long, Richie, don’t you think?” She didn’t wait for a response, only kept talking and talking about how excited she was to see everyone again. Richie was still hung up on the fact that Eddie lived in the city,  _ since when _ ? Richie lived in Brooklyn, which wasn’t too far from Manhattan all things considered, but he’s moved around New York so much. “Richie, you still there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. How’s Ben?”

“Good! We’ve almost got everything planned for the wedding.” Richie had to physically stop himself from getting nauseous whenever she mentioned it. Not because he didn’t like Ben or the idea of Bev getting married to him, but the fact that someone his age was already getting married was freaky, even if he was already a few years shy of thirty. “Just a couple more tweaks here and there, and we’ll be sending out the invitations.”

“Do I get mine before everyone else?”

“No, that’s not how it  _ works _ .”

His phone rang for the third time that night while he was still on call with Bev. “Someone else is trying to get in on the conversation, Bev. Maybe it’s Mike. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Richie hung up and answered the other line, but it was only Stan again. “Hey, Richie?”

“Yep.”

“You were right.”

“Alright!” Richie laughed to himself. “So what are you still doing on the phone with me, idiot? Go get laid,  _ please _ !”

“Yeah. Okay, yeah. Bye.” 

Stan had come out to Richie a little over a year ago, but that had been when he was still in a relationship with a girl. Not that he still didn’t like girls, he liked both apparently, but when she found out, she threw a fit, telling him that he couldn’t like guys if he was with her, that he was inherently cheating on her if he also liked guys. It was a heaping load of shit, and Richie told Stan as much, so he left her a couple months ago and ever since has been asking Richie for gay advice.

“That’s not a good idea, Staniel,” Richie had told him. “I’m the last person you want to come to for that kinda shit. I haven’t been in a serious relationship in  _ years _ , dude.” But Stan didn’t want to talk to anyone else about it. Stan was the one that had pushed Richie into therapy too, so he figured he owed Stan at least a little advice here and there. 

Stan still lived up in Michigan where he went to college, but he visited Richie pretty often. Every time, Richie would have to do a deep cleaning of his apartment before Stan arrived. He learned from his mistake the first time around, when Stan showed up and Richie was too tired from working two jobs every day, so he figured Stan would forgive him if he didn’t have the strength or energy or time to tidy up beforehand. He was wrong of course, Stan nearly passed out as soon as Richie opened the door and told him that if it looked the same the next time he came, he’d turn right back around and get on a flight back to Michigan.

Richie worked several jobs for a long time, but after getting an internship—which he thought for some reason was something you could only do if you went to college—at a radio station in Brooklyn, he left the coffee shop. For years he balanced waiting tables and grabbing morning and late night coffee for the guys who ran the station. That’s what moved him into his current living situation. It wasn’t exactly a brownstone, but it was what he could afford, and he just enjoyed having his own space for once. Only about a year ago did he land his own career hosting his own radio show, which definitely wasn’t where he thought he’d be if someone had asked him ten years ago, but he thought it was fitting.

He co-hosted a late night show with a woman named Jessica. She was much younger than him, maybe twenty-two if he had to take a guess, and she reminded him of Bev from time to time. Like when he came into work, and she pointed out that the tag was still left on his shirt, so, without his glasses, he attempted to cut the nearly invisible plastic tie on the back of his shirt with nail clippers because of course that was the only tool he had for cutting in his office at the time. With blurry vision, he cut the tip of his thumb off, and she called him an absolute dumbass, refusing to help him because, “I told you that was going to happen.”

They weren’t always so chummy, even if they had started interning together. That’s not to say that they didn’t hit it off from the start because they did. However, they definitely weren’t always on the same page. Oftentimes, they had similar hours, and even if Jessi got off an hour later than he did, Richie would still wait for her because he didn’t like walking home alone at three in the morning—old habits die hard. “You don’t  _ have _ to wait for me,” she would always say, and Richie would just shrug, “We live two blocks from each other.”

Sometimes, after long shifts of guzzling two large coffees and a few shots of espresso, neither would be tired, so they’d go sit down at a diner and complain about how shitty Pete (their boss) was. “One time he asked me for a massage, the bastard.”

“No way,” Richie scoffed, “me too.”

Jessi would laugh and shake her head at him.

“Tonight, he  _ accidentally _ ,” Richie put air quotes around the word, “dropped his yogurt in the breakroom, right in fucking front of me, and told me to clean it up. Seriously, who the fuck even eats yogurt?”

One night after a particularly grueling shift, Richie decided to walk her home. Neither wanted to stop at the 24 hour diner or cafe down by the station, but Jessi stopped before she typed in the key to the front door. “Richie?” she sighed, turning around.

“Yep?”

“Are you, like…into me? Because I keep picking up certain vibes, and I’d rather know now.”

Richie shook his head and stifled his laugh. “No, Jessi. No way.”

She took a couple steps back and pursed her lips at him. “And why not?” Her arms crossed. “Is it ‘cause I’m Black?”

It was Richie’s turn to be taken aback because when she asked, he hadn’t thought she wanted the answer to be yes. “Jessi,  _ no _ ,” he couldn’t help but laugh again. “You know the reason everyone hates me down at the station is ‘cause I’m gay, right?” Then he thought back to every single one of their interactions, wracking his fucked up brain for anything that might’ve tipped her off to the idea that he wouldn’t want to date her because of her skin. 

Her eyes went wide only for a brief second. “No, Richie. No, I did not know that.”

He thought it was weird that someone like her would be interested in someone like him, it was mostly because of the age difference, but looking back, five years isn’t all that bad. “So…is that a problem?”

“No,” she shook her head.

“Sorry,” he shuffled from foot to foot, “for being gay.”

She laughed at him then and nudged his shoulder. “Don’t ever apologize for something like that, Richie.” And Jessi turned to head into her apartment.

The only reason they got their own show in the first place was because the station thought it would be funny—putting together the only young, Black woman and the only queer they had together—but they managed, and even though their slot was midnight to five, they pulled in most of the ratings for the shitty station. Richie liked to call that karma, or irony, he wasn’t sure which, wasn’t ever very good in English class. 

Since then, Jessi had gotten over her little crush on Richie, or at least she acted like it. It’d been almost a year since they started their show, and Richie liked it because it not only paid his bills, but it was also incredibly entertaining. He got to talk for five hours straight and listen to good music. 

“Alright, here comes one of my personal favorites,” Richie spoke into his microphone as he got ready to flip some switches and press some buttons, “The Cure,  _ Apart _ .” And when their microphones were turned off and their audience couldn’t hear anything but the melancholy drone of Robert Smith, Jessi turned to him and shook her head. “What?” he shrugged.

“You pick some of the most depressing fucking songs, dude.”

“It’s a good song!”

“Yeah, it is a good song if you’re utterly heartbroken.”

“Alright, alright. I get it, I’m just a big ball of angst and melodrama.”

She nodded with a smile, “You white folks usually are.”

He laughed and leaned back in his chair on wheels. He had to buy it himself because the station didn’t want to waste the budget on trivial things like their comfort, but it was well worth the fifty bucks he spent on it. “Hey, Jessi?”

“Yes, Mr. Tozier?”

“God,” he ran a hand over his face, “please don’t call me that. It makes me feel old.”

She shrugged and smirked as if to say,  _ well, you are. _

“Watch it,” he joked, but she only sat there, prompting him to continue. “Uh, well, one of my friends gave me a call, and—”

“The neat freak or the newly wed.”

“Newly  _ engaged _ , actually.”

“Same thing,” she took a sip of her coffee. “Well?”

“Newly engaged,” he emphasised again, “she said that a bunch of my old friends from high school wanna meet up, and—”   
  


“What did I  _ tell _ you?  _ Old _ , fucking ancient. Going to fuckin’ high school reunions and shit. Which anniversary is this? Forty? Fifty?”

“I’m not  _ that _ much older than you, you little fucker. Don’t forget that you were trying to get in my pants not too long ago.” Jessi pretended to gag when he pointed it out. “ _ Anyway _ , as I was saying, we’re all planning on meeting up, which is cool I guess. I haven’t seen most of them in a while, but I think I’m also a little nervous. Which sounds stupid because they’re my friends, but I haven’t seen them in so long. And there’s seven of us, you know? The only people I ever even talk to anymore are you, Stan, and Bev.”

“First of all, relax. I bet you were the one friend that everyone secretly liked more than everyone else anyway. You know, like, everyone hung out together, but secretly everyone wanted to hang out with just you too.”

Richie scoffed. “Definitely wasn’t that friend.”

“I bet you were.” Jessi leaned toward the control panel as the song faded out. She slipped in an ad, and then lined up another song to play afterward. “They’re your friends, Richie. What do you have to be worried about?”

His therapist told him that this was one of the many side effects of anxiety and panic disorder: seeing problems in things when there’s really nothing to logically worry about. But he was going to therapy regularly now, and he quit smoking cigarettes. Now he just smoked weed, probably a little too much. His therapist said it might help, but professionally, she couldn’t advise him one way or the other. Richie thought it helped. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I think I’m just worried about seeing one friend in particular again. I think it might be a little weird. We were really close, but we haven’t spoken since high school.”

“Does this  _ friend _ have a name?” She leaned back in her own seat, smirk playing at her full lips as he ran her hand along the back of her shaved head.

“ _ Yeah _ , of course he has a name.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “And are you sure he was  _ just _ a friend?” 

“God, really, Jessi?”

“You started this conversation, buddy.”

“Yeah, okay. Maybe he fucked around a little.”

“A little?”

“Okay, maybe I was in love with him for like, ten years, and we dated for a couple months before he told me to fuck off. Big fuckin’ deal.”

“Wow, sounds like a real asshole.”

“But we’re cool now, y’know?”

“Also, in  _ love _ …for  _ ten _ years? Couldn’t be Richie Tozier.”

“Yeah, believe it or not, I’m looking, okay? A lot of the dudes I meet aren’t exactly aiming for the white picket fence.”

“Because all you do is go to gay bars!”

“Yeah! Where else are you supposed to find gay guys!”

“Oh, honey. You poor thing.” She shook her head, and clicked her microphone on again, adjusting her headphones as she spoke, “Hope you enjoyed that last song, apologies for Richie’s depressing picks.”

Richie let her talk this time, only interjected with minimal commentary, mostly to defend himself against her onslaught of insults. Jessi was good at talking, which might sound stupid to a lot of people, but a lot of people are also really shit at talking. Richie was good at it too when he wasn’t hardwired on anxiety and panic, but all he knew how to do was blabber on and on and on. There was something about Jessi’s voice that was so intoxicating, calming, which maybe wasn’t the best thing to have on a late night radio show, or maybe it was perfect, depending on why you were listening. 

After a few minutes, she played another song, and turned back to Richie with a sigh, a soft smile settled on her face. “So this guy that you’ve apparently been in love with your whole life…”

“I haven’t, Jess! It’s not like that. I’ve been over him for a long time now. We haven’t even seen each other in years, I don’t even know what he looks like now.”

She shook her head softly, her gentle smile ever present. “So why are you nervous about seeing him again?” When Richie couldn’t answer that, she continued, “Okay, let’s start with this, what do you like about him?”

“Jess, I told you. I haven’t—”

“Stop making excuses, and answer. What  _ did _ you like about him? If that makes this question any easier for you.”

Richie leaned back, looked up at the ceiling and thought. He wanted to say everything, but he knew Jessi wasn’t going to take that as an answer even if it was true. “Don’t laugh at me,” he said, fixing his glasses, thinking about how ridiculous he was going to sound.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Okay,” that wasn’t very reassuring to Richie, but he went ahead anyway, “well, I could say that I liked his body because I did. He was small and gentle, easily movable, you know? He could be so kind, like he was an absolute fuckin’ sweetheart, but if you pissed him off… God, I felt sorry for anyone who pissed him off. It was usually me though, I was usually the one to piss him off,” he huffed out a laugh remembering all the shit he did to get under Eddie’s skin. “This one time, I accidentally sneezed on him, and mind you, this kid was absolutely  _ terrified _ of getting sick. It was just seasonal allergies or something, I don’t even remember, but he tackled me and started yelling at me for being a total dumbass.”

“Sounds about right.”

“But all my fourteen year old brain could think about was that the most adorable fucking kid was sitting on me. God, I was so fucking whipped for him and didn’t even realize it.

“We used to read comics together too. We’d sit on one of our beds and read for hours. I think after a while we stopped reading all together and just used it as an excuse to get close. Maybe… I think what I really liked about him was just being with him though, like just physically and mentally being with him. It could be torture, sitting with him and not being able to touch him or anything, even if it was just the two of us. But at the same time, I always felt so reassured by him, by his presence. There was something so immensely mind fucking about being with him.” Richie sighed, and he looked back at Jessi. Her sweet, little smile had turned into an all knowing smirk, and he absolutely hated it.

“Okay, and what don’t you like about him?” When he couldn’t answer, she sang quietly, softly, “ _ Richie _ .”

He shook his head. “Don’t say it.”

“Richie Tozier, you’re blushing.” She leaned forward in her seat to get a better look at him. “You’re fucking in love with this guy. You are  _ so _ fucking in love.”

“I am not.”

“You  _ are _ .” She sat back and flicked her microphone on again, side eying him as she began to speak to their listeners again.

~*~

“So you’re gonna be there. Right, Stan?” Richie held the phone snug between his ear and shoulder as he locked up his apartment. “Because I really don’t think I’ll make it on my own.” The date was set for next week, everyone had bought their plane tickets already, made their sleeping arrangements. Richie wasn’t sure why they didn’t all head down to Florida to see Mike because it was the beginning of January and absolutely freezing in New York.

“Yeah, Richie. I already told you I’d be there. Remember? I made the joke that Eddie was going to be there too, so I wouldn’t burden you with staying at your place.”

“Fuck off.”

“And that’s exactly what you said last time! See, you do remember, Richie.” He sighed before letting out a short, breathy laugh into the phone. “Are you  _ actually _ nervous about seeing him again? It’s been years.”

“Well, yeah! Do you even know how weird it’s gonna be? I mean,  _ I _ don’t hold anything against him, but I have no idea how  _ he _ feels.”

“Richie, how much do you wanna bet that he’s having the same damn conversation with Bill or Mike right now?”

“Doubt it.”

“Oh, come on! You big fucking baby. Get over yourself already, Richie. You two should start seeing each other again, you both live in the city. It’d be perfect. When things were good between you two, they were really fucking good.”

“You have no idea, Stan.”   
  


“Gross. But you’re right. Go for it. Take him on an actual date this time.”

“Yeah right. I’ll call you tomorrow, Stan. I gotta grab some coffee before work.”

“Coffee? Richie, it's eleven at night.”

“Yeah, and I don’t get home until six in the morning. Gimme a break.”

“Alright, alright. See you soon, Rich.”

“See ya.” Richie originally thought that hearing an outsider’s perspective on the situation would be good for him, but then Jessi told him that he was still in love with Eddie. So Richie decided that an outsider’s perspective was bullshit and went to Stan, and Stan basically just told him the same thing Jessi had. Now he was genuinely debating asking his therapist next Wednesday.

When he reached the radio station and swapped out with the hosts of the previous hours, he handed Jessi her coffee, which was less coffee and more sugar and carbs than anything. “I don’t know how you drink that shit,” he huffed sleepily as he pulled on his headphones. They sat messily on his head.

“I don’t know how  _ you _ drink  _ that _ shit.”

“It’s black coffee, Jessi. Tons of people love it. Besides, I worked at a cafe for years, if I really wanted, I could manage downing a whole 12 ounce cup of espresso.”

“I really don’t think you need that kinda energy.”

“Now that I fall asleep at seven in the morning and get up at two in the afternoon I do.”

That Wednesday, Richie did not ask his therapist about Eddie, but Dr. Clark definitely knew something was bothering him besides his regular insecurities. “You know we’ve been seeing each other for about a while now, right? I know you, Richie.”

“It’s nothing! Promise.”

She called him a liar before he left at five. At seven, Jessi stopped by. They didn’t work on Wednesdays or Sundays. Somebody else hosted their slot on those nights. “So what do you think I should do?” They sat on his couch (which he  _ had _ tidied up before she arrived), beer bottles in hand and emptied dinner plates on the coffee table next to their propped up feet. The TV hummed low, harsh light flashing in front of them. 

Jessi sat with her head lain atop the back rest with her eyes closed as she shrugged. “I think it’s obvious what you should do. I think your friend Stan does too. You’re the only one with doubts, so you’re either not filling in certain parts of the story for us, or you’re in denial.” She hummed softly before she sat up, dropping her feet to the carpet and throwing back the rest of her beer. “Do you even keep anything in here? Or is it just for show?” She tapped the coffee table, eying the drawers on each side.

Richie shrugged. “Just a bunch of old crap I couldn’t get rid of and had nowhere else to put.”

Somehow that piqued her interest, and she moved onto the floor, pulling open one of the drawers. “I’m hoping to find some embarrassing baby pictures in here.”

“Good luck,” he scoffed. “Definitely don’t have any baby pictures in there.”

She began to rummage through his things, old working papers, birthday cards and the like. “You really have zero organizational skills, huh?” She shook her head and continued to weed out all the uninteresting things. A good five minutes passed before she stopped, “Oh. Oh, now  _ this _ is gold. This is better than embarrassing baby pictures.”

“Whatcha got? Condoms from 1991?”

“Gross, but no. I found teenage Richie. Or at least I’m assuming that’s you.” She did some more picking before sitting on the couch with a stack of pictures and notes. “The only give away is the hair and the glasses,” she said, lifting up the first picture. “You got  _ fat _ , man.”

“I did  _ not _ get fat. I grew up, and I put on weight.” If Richie were being honest, that was one of the biggest things he was worried about when it came to seeing Eddie again. He was scared that Eddie wouldn’t like him anymore, that he was too scruffy, too big. He was so different now from when they were younger, but he liked himself now. He wasn’t scrawny anymore, wasn’t too long or too awkward, and he could definitely grow more than a patchy, rough looking beard now. Richie wasn’t the same as when they were kids, and he thought that was okay until Bev told them they would all be meeting up again.

“Tell me which one he is,” Jessi pushed as she lifted another picture. 

“No way.”

“Come on,  _ please _ .”

“Okay, well that’s Stan,” he pointed, “and that’s Bev. Then there’s Bill and Ben. And that’s Mike and Eddie. Figure it out.”

“Ben is the other newly wed, right?”

“Newly engaged, yeah.”

“Okay, Mike’s a big guy, so I don’t think it was him. Bill, maybe. Eddie, maybe.”

“Wow, such impressive detective skills.”

“I know, I’m the best. So which one is it?”

“You’re the detective.”

“Asshole.” She shook her head and continued to flip through the pictures. “Ooh! Ooh! It was Eddie! I got it! Look at you two!” She held up one of the many sequences of tiny pictures that they had taken in the arcade. “God, you guys are like,  _ vintage _ .”

Richie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I get it. I’m old.”

“You kept this since…” she flipped the pictures over to check the date, “yo, 1992. Dude, you’re still whipped. You are  _ so _ whipped.”

“I told you, we were close! Like best friends close. Of course I kept them.”

“Sounds like an excuse to me.” Jessi looked through the rest of the photographs, some of all seven of them, some of him and Bev and Stan, and some of just him and Eddie. She read a rather embarrassing note that Eddie had slipped into his backpack early senior year, and then Richie ripped an unsent letter out of her hand as soon as she had opened it. He knew it would’ve been way too incriminating, would make him sound absolutely desperate. “So he’s gonna be there on Friday? Eddie, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Richie sighed out. “As far as I know.”

“Great. So what are you wearing?”

“Jessi, you have to know by now that I only own the same five articles of clothing, just in different colors.”

“God, you’re absolutely hopeless, Richie. Were you always like this? Were Eddie’s standards that low? I guess you  _ do _ have a little bit of charm, but…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “You’re gonna need some serious help to get this guy back, Richie. I mean like, divine intervention or some shit. I don’t know what he looks like now, but he sure as hell was a cute kid.”

“Thank you for that, Jessi,” he deadpanned, and a slow thrum burned in his chest. “That was very helpful, I’ll keep that in mind on Friday.” Dr. Clark had told him that if he chose to use marijuana for medicinal purposes (against her guidance, she had to add), he shouldn’t ever use it as a quick fix for panic attacks. It would be better to use it sparingly throughout the day, but fuck did he want some  _ right _ now. “Shit,” he muttered, dug his fingers into his thigh and tried his best to use those stupid breathing techniques that never really seemed to work on him. The slow thrum erupted into a jackhammering, and his hands shook no matter how hard he sunk his fingertips into the denim beneath them. 

Breathe in through his nose for as long as he could, hold it, and breathe out through his mouth. Then repeat. Breathe in, hold it, breathe out. Breathe in, hold it, breathe out. Breathe in, hold it, breathe—

“ _ Fuck, fuck _ .” He leaned forward, pulled his hair, couldn’t quite catch his breath. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, hey.” Jessi sunk to the floor in front of him, moving his hands out of his face. “Richie, are you okay? Richie, look at me. Breathe, honey. Breathe. Look at me. Breathe with me. In.” She took a deep inhale, and he tried his best to follow. “Out. In. Out. There you go.”

Slowly, he gained back a very basic functionality. Unfortunately it wasn’t without making himself dizzy first. “Thanks. Sorry. Fuck, that was stupid. I’m sorry. I’m just being stupid.”

She shook her head. “Has that happened before?”

He didn’t like telling people about how fucked up he was, didn’t like telling people he had to go to therapy, that he couldn’t control his own damn emotions. “Sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”

“Richie, I think you just had a panic attack. My mom used to get them when I was little.” She paused, tried to blink away any trace of worry on her face. “I’m sorry…if I said something, anything that made you have to go through that just now. I didn’t mean to— I— you know how we joke around all the time. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Really, Jessi.” He sat back and took another deep breath, albeit still shaky. “Thank you, really. I think I’m just freaked out…about Friday night, and I don’t know why. I’m being a total fucking baby. I know I am. I’m acting like a stupid teenager, I’m just being stupid.”

“Richie, listen,” she sighed, and her expression softened, “I know this isn’t what you want to hear because for whatever reason it freaks you out, but I think you still have feelings for this guy. And that’s okay, you know? I obviously don’t know the whole story, but I know you two knew each other for a long time, and it’s obvious that you were very special to each other. And again, I don’t know what went wrong, but to lose someone that you care about sucks. It’s okay to still care about that person even if you don’t have them with you anymore, and it’s okay to miss them and love them still. 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I know that anxiety can make you think up all sorts of untrue, fucked up things, but just…listen to your heart on Friday, okay? If it feels right, it feels right.”

Richie didn’t deserve Jessi, and he told her as much. 

  
  



	3. Love and the Vast Generalization of Technology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is painfully awkward, good luck.
> 
> CWs:  
> mild anxiety, therapy (probably fairly inaccurate skhjkdha I’m a writing major not a psych major)

“Hey, Eds! Still got those cute little shorts, I see.” Richie smiled at himself in the mirror before rolling his eyes. “It’s fucking January, you idiot. It’s  _ twenty _ degrees out, why would he be wearing fucking shorts?” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before facing himself in the mirror again. “Wishful fucking thinking is what that is, Tozier.  _ Stupid _ .” Jessi had picked out his clothes for the night. She said she tried her best to make him look as cool as possible with what she was working with, taking extra care in staying away from any of the socks that had aliens or snails or turtles on them.

“Endearing for a seventeen year old, Richie, not for a twenty-seven year old.”

“Hey, I’ll be twenty-eight soon.”

“More of a reason to not wear them.”

Naturally, he ignored that particular piece of advice and wore the ones with turtles because the turtles were green, and she picked out a green shirt for him. So it made sense. Besides, she told him to listen to his heart tonight, and right now his heart was saying turtle socks. “Whatever,” he mumbled, looking himself over one last time for the night, “I’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.” He shrugged on his second jacket because he tended to buy several cheap ones and layer rather than buy the really cozy, effective, expensive ones. The big ones didn’t look good on him anyway.

Venturing out in the cold, he thought through his route to make sure he’d left on time. Having a job had made him more time conscious, but obviously it hadn’t done enough because he was still running late. He’d have to take the F train into Manhattan, but they were meeting at a place in Chinatown which was pretty far south on the island, so it wouldn’t take him too long, maybe a half hour. He checked the time on his phone as he stepped onto the northbound train: 6:45. Fifteen minutes late was better than a half hour late, he told himself. 

For a brief moment, he tried to picture Eddie on a New York subway and just chuckled to himself. Richie really hoped that Eddie had recovered from his germophobia. The anti-germ mentality was one thing, and Richie could deal with that, but it used to piss him off so much because he knew that Sonia had made Eddie that way. The thought of her quickly brought back too many negative emotions and memories, so he did his best to push them down and think again of Eddie not wanting to touch a single thing in the train.

That wouldn’t be so bad, Richie thought, not if he was there with him. Eddie would just hold onto Richie. He smiled again.

Richie highly considered turning right back around when he got off the subway, especially after he climbed the stairs up to the sidewalk outside, and it somehow felt colder at seven o’clock on a Friday in Manhattan than at midnight in Brooklyn. That, and he was starting to get cold feet (primarily in the metaphorical sense, but literally too). 

He managed to turn what could’ve been a fifteen minute walk into a seven minute one. It was fucking cold, and now the fear of seeing Eddie again was heavily outweighed by his desire to sit down and eat some hot food. But to his surprise, when he sat down, everyone but Eddie was there, and Richie was already ten minutes late himself. Everyone said hello, and Richie found himself calming down rather than getting more nervous. 

Things were different now, some of them were anyway, like Bev’s hair. She wore it at her shoulders in messy waves and choppy bangs, and Ben had lost some weight, or maybe it just redistributed as he finally hit a growth spurt. Richie had put on some, cut his hair. Mike just seemed to get bigger and bigger, taller and broader. He seemed happier somehow, even if they only exchanged minimal words at this point. Even his smile was bigger, brighter. Bill hadn’t seemed to grow much, but Richie definitely thought he spotted a few grey hairs and the beginnings of dark under eyes, not necessarily from stress but rather from experience, or maybe stress. Richie saw Stan often enough, so if something had changed about him over the past ten years other than his new found interest in men and wearing a yarmulke daily, Richie didn’t think he’d be able to tell. 

Things were different now, but they were also inexplicably and undeniably the same, maybe even better. They all seemed happy and excited to be here which made Richie realize how absolutely miserable they were as kids. They all were. Maybe they laughed here and there and had some fun on the rare occasion in Derry, but for the most part, their teenage years were spent looking over their shoulders and waiting for the next storm to hit. And maybe everyone dealt with that kind of shit, maybe it was just weird teenage angst, but Richie thought it was real. Richie knew Bowers was real, and he knew that Stan making the decision to leave with Mike that night was real. He knew that Bev having to leave her home to live with Peggy was real. And Richie knew that Eddie’s black eye and split lip were real.

He thought maybe that only meant that their clubhouse was also real, that reading  _ X-Men _ comics on Eddie’s bed was real, that laying in the too small hammock, Eddie only ever drinking half his beer, the moments captured on 1992 photo booth film, the rings they shared must be real too. And if all of it—Bowers and clubhouse and all—were real, then it isn’t absolutely insane that he still loved Eddie because that was real too. That was the most real, Richie thought.

“Sorry! Sorry I’m late.” Eddie came rushing to their table, tossing his heavy coat on the back of the chair next to Richie and taking a seat. And  _ oh _ , that had been the only empty seat left, the one next to Richie. He’d been surprised that he hadn’t jumped down five different rabbit holes of overthinking about that by now. He watched Eddie sit and then looked up at Stan who sat on the opposite side of Eddie, and Stan winked. Richie only narrowed his eyes at him before Eddie began to apologize again. “I’m really not used to taking the subway.”

The idea of Eddie taking the subway but also implying that he didn’t  _ usually _ take it stuck in Richie’s mind. 

“I usually stick to the Upper East Side, so the subway is still a little foriegn to me.”

Eddie’s nose was bright red, and he sniffled as he picked up his menu, set it down, rearranged the utensils in front of him, and picked the menu back up again. Was he outside for too long? Was he still cold? Would he feel better if Richie held his hand, hugged him? Of course he wouldn’t, that’s high school talk.

Eddie then looked around the table and the greetings commenced. “If we weren’t packed so tight in here,” Bev spoke across the table at him, “I’d get up and give you a hug. I’m also just  _ really _ hungry.” Then they all burst into conversation about food and what looked good. 

Eddie didn’t seem very different. He resorted to slicking his curly hair back again, like he did when he was young, but now it fell out of place, and everytime he ran his fingers through it in attempts to tame it, get it out of his face, it only fell forward again, small, clumped together waves that brushed his brow bone and his cheeks. He wore a sweatshirt under his coat and dark khakis that pulled up above his ankles when he sat. A fanny pack still wrapped around his hips, and Richie wanted to make a comment, wanted to see if he’d still get the same, “It comes in handy, asshole!” Eddie hadn’t even grown much, was definitely broader and more man than boy, but still short and compact. 

“So what are you doing now, Richie?” It was Mike who asked. “Sorry to prioritize him, guys. We’ll get to you all later, but I gotta know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Richie scoffed. They were some of the first words he’d said all night. That felt different too.

“It just means that the last time we all saw you,” Mike said matter of factly, “you had no fucking clue what you wanted to do.”

“Right, right,” Richie nodded. It  _ was _ true. “Well, you might wanna stand up for this one, but I’m a DJ.”

“Whoa!” Bill smiled. “So you work clubs and stuff? Or like…weddings? Oh, you could do Ben and Bev’s wedding!”

“No, not like  _ that _ kinda DJ. I mean, I guess I could if I wanted. I host a radio show at the station on forty-third in Brooklyn.”

“Oh, so you  _ talk _ for a living,” Mike chided. “Makes sense now.”

“Wait,” Eddie looked at him for the first time that night. “You work in Brooklyn? You live in New York?”

Richie turned to look at him, carefully monitoring his own expression as he shrugged. “Yeah. I live two blocks from where I work. That a problem, Eds?”

Eddie pursed his lips, and Richie oddly found instant comfort in the familiar expression of complete and utter irritation. “Yeah! It’s a fucking problem. How long have you lived here?”

“ _ Mm _ , seven, eight years.”

“And you never told me!” He sounded angry, but he smiled as he spoke, a sweet, gentle upturn of his lips. Richie could have sworn he saw some sense of relief, of overwhelming joy in its soft presence.

“How was  _ I _ supposed to know where you live?”

“Alright, alright,” Stan cut in, “as entertaining as ten years of pent up insults and arguing is, I’d like to hear about some of my other friends as well.”

They talked about Bev’s career in the fashion industry, and how Ben just got promoted at his architecture firm. Bill was a novel writer apparently (who dabbled in poetry from time to time), which seemed strangely fitting. Mike worked at one of the biggest hospitals in Miami as a nurse, and Richie learned that Eddie was actually a therapist. 

“No shit, so you’re like a real doctor now?”

Eddie shook his head. “No, but I will be in about…” he trailed off, doing some simple math on his fingers, “five years.”

“Why five?” Bill frowned.

“Well, it takes a little under nine years to get your PhD. And you need a PhD or doctorate to be given the title of doctor.”

“Shit,” Stan sighed, “is it even worth it then?”

“Yeah, and shouldn’t all therapists be doctors,” Richie snorted, it was easy talking to him when everyone else was here with them. “I feel like that’s a little sketchy.”

“No again. You need a bachelor’s degree, a license to practice, and a promise in continued education.”

“Huh, and you picked the path of another decade’s worth of student debt.” 

Eddie shrugged. “I go to a public state college, so tuition is close to nothing. And besides, my job pays me very well.”

“Shit, like how well?”

Bev slapped Richie playfully on the shoulder. “You don’t  _ ask _ somebody that, dumbass.”

“I’ve known the guy since I was five, I’m pretty sure I have full obligation to ask that!” Richie turned back to Eddie for an answer, but their food was already being served. And while he was still interested in talking some more with Eddie (and everyone else), he still hadn’t warmed up from his three block walk from East Broadway to Bowery. Apparently this place specialized in something called soup dumplings, which Richie figured was just a strange way of saying dumpling soup, but it turns out that the soup was actually  _ inside _ the dumplings. New York never failed in proving Richie to be totally uncultured. He put the blame on growing up in Derry.

“So when’s the wedding?” Richie asked as he burned his tongue. The waiter had put on a whole demonstration showing them how to specifically eat the dumplings, and Richie specifically ignored all of it.

“Well, we still haven’t settled on a date for sure yet, but we’re thinking about an October wedding.”

Ben shook his head. “She wants a  _ Halloween _ themed wedding! I will not let you tell our guests to come in costume.”

“Ben’s turned into a real fun sucker, if you can’t tell.” She smiled when she said it though. “Don’t worry, I know you’re taking the reins in planning the wedding. It’s okay though because we all know I’m the one running the rest of this relationship.”

Richie nodded with a laugh, that seemed about right. If he and Eddie were the ones getting married, Richie would be the one telling people to come in costume, and Eddie would be the one to bring him back down to reality. He knew he was being ridiculous, that they couldn’t get married even if they wanted to, but he told himself that acting like a stupidly in love high schooler was warranted. Then he told himself it wasn’t.

But everything went well, everything was fine, until Richie had to go to work and everyone split the bill and said their goodbyes, sent hugs all around. They agreed to meet up again that weekend before most of them had to go back home to their regular lives and regular work schedules. Richie thought it was weird, thought it was strange that life with the seven of them and life outside of them had turned into two completely different things, that life with them was a weekend in lower Manhattan and life without them was just regular, everyday life. He wasn’t sure when they let that happen.

Eddie chased him down when they left the small restaurant, all the others already dispersing, heading back to their hotels. “You never said goodbye, Richie.” And his hand that rested gently on Richie’s three layered shoulder made him go red. 

“Did I not?” Richie shrugged, playing dumb, like he hadn’t been trying to avoid this kind of interaction with Eddie.

“No, you asshole.” Eddie pushed himself up on his toes to give Richie a hug, and Richie pulled him in tight, getting absolutely high on the way Eddie’s small frame melted perfectly into his larger one, still after all these years. He pulled away then, and lingered in the spot in front of Richie before taking a step back. “Maybe you wanna come back to my place?” he shrugged, and then smiled a little to himself, “It’ll answer that question you had. How much I make…”

Richie chuckled, but he still felt the thrum in his chest rise just a little. Either Eddie was being incredibly full of himself or trying to flirt, but whichever it was Eddie was fully aware of how he sounded. “I’d love to, Eds. But I wasn’t kidding when I said I have work.” He realized he hadn’t been nervous all night, had the buffer of his friends to help him even if Eddie sat directly next to him the whole time. Now, it was just Eddie and Richie, and Richie felt a whole new swell of emotions—the leading being anxiety, nervousness, panic. 

“Oh, come on! When have you been responsible enough to go to bed at a decent hour! I’m sure you don’t have to get up  _ that _ early.”

“No, I mean like, I have work  _ now _ .” He was almost angry at himself for having to turn down an invite back to Eddie’s, but the anxious part of him was relieved.

“Oh. Oh, okay. Sorry, I didn’t—”

“No, it’s alright. I know, a twelve to five shift is a little ridiculous.”

“Shit, dude. That sucks.” There was a certain sadness in his eyes now, and part of Richie hoped it wasn’t because he had to say no.

He shrugged. “It’s okay. I like doing it.” Then it was quiet, and after being quiet for too long, Richie was about ready to throw a thumb over his shoulder and tell Eddie that he better get going, but Eddie beat him to it.

He looked Richie up and down, a slight smirk tugged at one side of his lips and he said, “You put on weight.”

“What?” He heard Eddie perfectly fine, but he just couldn’t believe that was what actually came out of his mouth. Richie’s heart beat faster, and he tried his best to focus on his breathing, just like he’d done with Jessi.

“Shit, I mean— Not like in a  _ bad way _ . Fuck.” Eddie was panicking now too. His face went red, and his hands started flailing in all different directions as he spoke. “You just got bigger, grew up, you know? I know how much you hated being so skinny.” Eddie took a deep breath, grounded himself, and continued, “You look good, is what I meant to say.”

“Really?” Richie didn’t  _ mean _ to sound so desperate for that kind of validation, but hearing it soothed the pounding against his ribs just barely.

“Yeah, really. You’re still so tall.”

“You’re still pretty fuckin’ short, Eds.”

“Alright, Richie. I guess that’s my cue to leave.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow probably.”

“Uh, yeah. I uhm, I meant that in a good way too. Sorry.” He pinched at the fabric in his pockets, rubbed it between his fingers before balling it into his fist.

Eddie only smiled before he jumped in for another hug. “Okay, Richie. I’ll see you.”

Richie struggled to pull his hands out of his pockets and hold onto Eddie again, fumbled with the fabric, fingers getting caught and stuck. “Yeah. See ya.” Eddie pulled away then, and he left with a gentle wave goodbye. Richie took a deep breath, realizing what a total mess he was. Jessi and Stan were right, and he hated them for it, hated himself for it.

Work went by painfully slow for the first time since he started going to therapy too. All he could think about were the minimal interactions he shared with Eddie and if Eddie was thinking about them too. He hadn’t had time to stop and get coffee either, and by three in the morning, he was just about running on anxiety alone. “So tell me,” Jessi smirked and eyed him after she introduced some more songs for their audience to listen to while they mused on Richie’s so-called problems, “you’ve been quiet all night, Tozier. And normally I wouldn’t complain, but it’s literally your job to talk, so either tell me what happened tonight or… No sorry, that’s your only option, tell me what happened tonight.”

“I told you,” he grunted, “nothing happened.”

“I know that’s what you  _ told _ me, Richie. But obviously you’re lying. Did he shit on you? ‘Cause I’ll kill him.”

“No!” Richie sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Just seeing him again has me thinking, you know? We were pretty casual all night, or at least I thought we were, and then everyone leaves and he invites me back to his place, I dunno. I don’t know how I should’ve taken that, but obviously I had to turn him down.”

“Uh, why?”

“Because I had to be here, dumbass.”

“Okay, sure, but you could’ve taken a raincheck, dipshit.” She glared at him like that was the obvious option.

“I guess. I think I’m seeing him tomorrow anyway.”

“Like,  _ just _ him?”

“No, everyone.”

“Okay well please, for the love of god, man, at least get his number tomorrow. Or better yet, go back to his place.”

“Yeah, and get fired, no thanks. I can’t afford to go make coffee for a living again.”

“Alright, well we have Sundays off.”

“But normal people go to work on Monday morning.”

She threw her hands up in defeat. “You’re literally just making up excuses now, Richie. You’re fucking hopeless, don’t say I never tried to help you.”

~*~

On Saturday, he woke up to his phone buzzing incessantly on his bedside table. After five minutes of not being able to fall back asleep, he answered it, flipping it open and pressing it lazily to his ear. “Tozier speaking,” he grumbled into the receiver, throwing his head back onto the pillow.

“Yeah, hey,  _ Tozier _ . You just get up?” 

“Ugh, yeah. More like you just woke me up, Stan.”

“Whoops! Anyway, we just went out for lunch, and we’re all headed to Rockefeller Center if you want to meet us.”

“Eddie didn’t object to that kinda touristy bullshit?”

“Oh he did, but then we reminded him that five of us really are just tourists. You should get your ass up and meet us so Eddie will have someone to complain to that isn’t us.”

“Funny,” Richie sighed with a stretch, finally sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Why didn’t you call me earlier? I would’ve come to lunch with you guys.”

“Yeah right. Richie, you worked ‘til five a.m.”

“I always work until five.”

“Fine, fine. We thought we were doing you a favor, next time we’ll wake you up after only four hours of sleep.”

“Thank you. Please do. I’d be offended otherwise.”

“Okay, okay. Just hurry up, we’re taking the subway now.” Stan hung up without saying goodbye, and Richie forced himself out of bed and into layers upon layers of clothes again. Normally he’d make his own breakfast, it was much cheaper, but he figured an on the go meal would be warranted for today. Before loading himself onto the subway, he stopped by his usual cafe for coffee and a sandwich and headed into Manhattan. He felt bad because getting anywhere from Brooklyn via subway took a painstakingly long time, but that wasn’t really his fault. He showed up about an hour after Stan had called him, but of course Rockefeller Center was overflowing just a couple weeks after New Years, so he gave Stan another call. “Hello?”

“Yo, Staniel the Maniel. Where are you guys? I’m here.”

“Oh god. Richie?”

“Uh, is everything okay? You don’t sound like Stan, did I call the wrong number again?”

“No, Richie, it’s Eddie. Stan gave me his phone in case you called. They’re all out on the ice. Here, I’ll wave.”

Richie looked around the rink, caught Eddie lazily holding his arm up in random directions, but couldn’t resist the urge to make a comment, “You sure that’s gonna do anything, Eds? You’re basically toddler sized.”

“Haha, real funny, dick. Do you see me or not?”   
  


Richie hurried down the stairs because he did see him. “No, Eddie. I told you, you’re too small.”

“Yeah, well maybe use your fuckin’ giraffe legs to look over everyone else.”

Richie pushed through the crowd, “Alright, alright,” sneaking up on a very distressed looking Eddie, and as he threw an arm over his shoulders, spoke into the phone, “Found ya.”

“God, you’re a real dickhead, aren’t you?” Eddie jumped and pushed him away, shoving Stan’s phone into his fanny pack. Richie idly wondered if he still had any pill bottles in there, or bandaids and that travel sized bottle of rubbing alcohol.

Richie leaned up against the half wall of the rink. “So I’m a dickhead  _ and _ I have giraffe legs? That sounds… _ very _ unappealing.”   
  


“Well, congrats because that pretty much sums you up.”

“Thank you, thanks for that one.” Richie turned around to look for the others. He wanted to see Bill bust his ass on the ice and inevitably take both Stan and Mike down with him. Something was off about Eddie though, and Richie chalked it up to all the people packed into one tiny area, but he definitely seemed a hell of a lot more peeved than usual. Maybe Eddie was just angry now, maybe that’s just how he was, maybe happy Eddie from last night was a rarity. 

“So what took you so long to get here?” Eddie asked when Richie finally caught a glimpse of their friends.

“Oh,” Richie pulled his eyes away from the rink to look at Eddie again. “You miss me that much, Eds?”

Eddie pursed his lips. “Nevermind, forget I asked.”

It was quiet then. Well, it wasn’t exactly quiet at the outdoor ice rink only blocks from Times Square, but they were quiet. Eddie was quiet, so Richie turned back to the ice and started to practice his breathing. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that, maybe he overstepped his boundaries, but they’ve never,  _ ever _ had any boundaries. Even when they weren’t dating for the first decade of their friendship, Richie flirted endlessly, that’s just how they were. That’s always where they were comfortable even if they pretended not to be. He took a deep breath, held it, and let all the air out of his lungs. “You don’t want to skate?”

Eddie turned over his shoulder to glare at someone who had elbowed him in the back as they passed by, grumbling a few insults under his breath. “No,” he shook his head, looking back at their friends, “just being here makes me feel like a fake New Yorker.”

Richie scoffed and instinctively stepped a little closer, stopped himself from putting an arm around Eddie, wanting to act as a barrier between him and everyone else. Fuck that guy who bumped into him. “Yeah, I said the same thing. Wanna head over to Bryant Park?”

“And get  _ closer _ to Times Square?”

“It’s probably less crowded this time of year.”

“Richie, they literally have a whole winter market at the park from October to March.”

“Shit, I don’t really come up here much.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Eddie snorted, but Richie noticed the slight curl of his lips as he shook his head and looked away. 

“Well maybe they’ll have something there to warm you up.”

“I’m fine, Richie.”

“You’re shaking, Eddie. Come on. I’ll buy you a ten dollar New York street vendor hot chocolate.”

Eddie thought about it, weighing the pros and cons of going to an overly crowded market square to get overpriced hot chocolate with Richie Tozier. “I still have Stan’s phone though.”

“And you have yours, and I have mine too, they’ll be able to call us whenever they’re done. Let’s go, Eds, it’s only a couple blocks down.”

“You’re not going to let me say no, are you?”

Richie shrugged. “I will, but I want you to say yes.”

“Fine,” Eddie sighed, and as they pushed their way through the heavy foot traffic, Eddie grabbed onto Richie's arm. Richie had to tell himself that it was just because Eddie didn’t want to get lost and separated, that Eddie didn’t really  _ want _ to hold his hand, but had to. Still, when Richie slipped his hand out of his pocket, Eddie didn’t hesitate to mesh their fingers together. Neither of them tried to make a big deal about it, didn’t look at each other or make any sudden movements, just let their hands sit together.

Richie pulled through with his promise of buying Eddie his crazy expensive hot chocolate, but Eddie was right about this crowd being no lighter, so they walked back up Fifth Ave. “Is it any good?”

“For seven bucks? It’s fucking delicious, but don’t you dare ask to try any. You should’ve gotten your own.”

“I told you, I just had my coffee an hour ago! I didn’t want a whole seven dollar hot chocolate.”

“And that’s very unfortunate for you, isn’t it?”

They walked and walked, and the sidewalk crowds thinned after passing Fiftieth Street. Richie had shoved his hands back in his pockets a while ago, all the way back on Forty-Third. Eddie held his little paper cup in both hands, tucking it into his chest and taking small sips every once and awhile. Richie was happy to know that Eddie wasn’t always angry, that he was still kind of a dick, but that was okay because they were both assholes to each other and they always had been, poking harmless fun. If Richie were being honest though, he would’ve let Eddie try his hot chocolate.

“Sorry about last night, by the way.”

“Why? What happened last night?”

“You know…” Eddie brought the cup to his lips, took a loud sip, and held it back at his chest, “I basically called you fat.”

Richie snorted out an ugly laugh. “Eddie, it’s fine. You really didn’t.”

“But I  _ did _ . And that’s really fucked up, like rule number one is never comment on somebody’s weight, and I did. Especially since I  _ know _ you’ve been self conscious about that before, and I just shouldn’t—”

“Eddie, it’s fine. I promise.”

“Okay, well…I meant it when I said you look good. I wasn’t just trying to cover up being an asshole with a half assed compliment.”

Richie wasn’t sure what to say, but he was starting to sweat under his two t-shirts, sweatshirt, and bomber jacket. So he knew looking at Eddie was the absolute last thing he should’ve done right then, it would only make him more nervous, sweat more, make his whole face go red, but against everything in him telling him not to turn to Eddie, to smile at him fondly, and get all flustered, he did anyway. “I, uh…I like what you’re doing with your hair.” 

As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt like a total idiot.  _ I like what you’re doing with your hair, _ fucking dumbass. Eddie let out a small huff as he smiled. “Thanks.” He shook his head, raising a self conscious hand to the knit hat on his head. “I usually only do it for work, so I just tried to hide it today really.” Richie could still see wavy tuffs sticking out over his forehead and by his ears. 

“So how is it? Being a therapist, I mean.”

“Richie, I really don’t wanna hear it. I like it, okay? I like helping people.”

“I wasn’t going to! I just— I, uhm— I actually go to therapy now.” After he mustered up the courage to speak the words into fruition, all he could hear was his own heartbeat in his ears, heavy and fast and loud. He didn’t like telling people unless he had to, but he could trust Eddie. He told himself he could anyway. Richie took a deep breath in, held it in his lungs for too long.

“Oh. That’s good. What for? I— Sorry.” Eddie let out a dry laugh, tensed, lifted his shoulders up to his ears to hide himself behind his huge puffer jacket. “I keep fucking up. You don’t have to answer that, Richie. Really, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay, Eds. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Richie mulled it over for a moment, thought if he told Eddie how fucked up he was, he’d want nothing to do with him, look at him like one of his patients. But when Richie got nervous, he tended to make not so great decisions. His anxiety took over, and he just started blurting things like _ I like what you’re doing with your hair _ . “Apparently I have really bad panic disorder, and like, raging anxiety,  _ ha _ . So…”

“Oh, that’s not so bad.  _ Shit _ . I mean, yeah that really sucks. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound like what you’re dealing with is just a minor inconvenience. Anxiety sucks, panic disorder fucking sucks, man. But I see a lot of people that have it. I just meant that it’s pretty common. I think I saw something that said almost twenty percent of the US population struggles with some sort of anxiety disorder, and you know, that’s not counting the people who don’t even seek out help, so… I’m rambling, sorry. I only meant that you’re not like…some freak because you get panic attacks.”

“You need to stop apologizing so much, Eds.” Richie smiled though because he bet Eddie was actually a really good therapist, even if he did ramble a lot. It was very obvious that he cared about people, about learning and helping. 

“God, I know.” Eddie let out another little laugh. “I keep telling myself that. I should take the advice I give to my own patients.”

“It’s alright,” Richie shrugged, “nobody’s really got their shit together, right? We all just act like we do. Your patients don’t need to know that you ramble.”

“Yeah,” Eddie smiled down at his hot chocolate, and it was only quiet for a short moment as they passed by the Central Park Zoo. “Hey, there’s an ice rink at the north end of the park. It’s never crowded, not like Rockefeller or Bryant Park anyway. Maybe we should check it out sometime, you know, when our friends aren’t being obnoxious tourists.” Eddie turned to him with a gentle smile and a nose dusted pink.

That was a date proposal, right? That was Eddie asking Richie out on a date, wasn’t it? It was then that Richie realized he was a twenty-seven year old man, and having someone ask him to go ice skating shouldn’t be panic inducing and anxiety triggering, but hey! You learn new things about yourself every day. He inhaled and held onto it for as long as he could without making the silence go on for too long, but before he could even think about giving an answer, the bag around Eddie’s waist started to buzz. 

“Shit.” Eddie shoved his cup at Richie’s chest as he fumbled with the zipper. He pulled out his phone just in time to flip it open. “Hello?” Richie watched as Eddie’s cheeks turned red, even more so than from just the cold, and he pursed his lips and rolled his eyes as the person on the other end spoke. Classic Eddie. “We just went for a walk!” He paused only briefly. “ _ No _ ! We’ll be back soon, don’t leave.” He flipped his phone shut before throwing it back in his fanny pack. Richie definitely didn’t try to sneak a look at what was in there besides the two phones.

“Stan demanding his property back?”

Eddie nodded with a frustrated sigh as he turned back around. “Can I see your phone, Richie?”

“Don’t have enough already?” He reached into his back pocket regardless and handed over his cell phone into Eddie’s outstretched hand. 

Eddie only flipped it open, typing out a number onto the tiny keyboard. Then he waited, and the buzz at his hip started again before he closed the phone and handed it back to Richie. “There. Now you can’t ignore me for another ten years.”

Richie would try though. He’d try to avoid Eddie for as long as he could even though he knew that interacting with him on an individual level wouldn’t have been that bad, that it hadn’t been that bad. Maybe it was awkward here and there, and they were both nervous, but they’d rebuild, right? Logically, spending more time together would mean the answer would be yes, but Richie allowed his paranoia to feed off his thoughts, tell himself that there was a possibility that spending more time together would ultimately lead to both of them learning that neither of them really wanted this, that they both just got caught up in the idea of each other, in the memories of being young and stupid and in love and probably more than a little bit reckless. And Richie was scared of that, terrified that he might lose Eddie again, and this time it would mean much less to him, make him feel much less.

He decided to tell Dr. Clark that during his Wednesday evening session. Maybe he left out a few details here and there, but he thought she’d understand what she needed to, and he only decided to tell her because it was eating him up more than it should. Eddie, and any decision Richie made surrounding him, made him more anxious than ever, and he loathed that. 

“I think it’s fairly evident that you two care a great deal for each other.” She nodded at him. “Wouldn’t you say that’s true?”

Richie picked at the loose thread of the couch cushion beneath his leg. It was strangely cozy in Dr. Clark’s office, and scarily similar to what you saw in the movies—odd art pieces hanging on the walls and set on the book shelves, three different rugs piled up beneath his feet which he found strange because nobody ever took their shoes off in here, and the only light that entered the room was through the cracks in the heavy curtains and the various warm toned lamps that scattered across the floor and desktops. Dr. Clark sat near her desk which faced the wall, sat facing Richie in a big squeaky looking chair that rolled around even on the carpet. She held a notepad in her hands and a steady pen, scribbled things down as he spoke like she was studying him—which was her job really, but that didn’t make it feel any less weird.

“Sure,” Richie nodded, “I guess so. But things are different now, you know?”

“No, I don’t,” she shook her head ever so slightly, “tell me. How are things different?”

Richie pursed his lips together and looked around like the answer would lie in one of the many foreign looking sculptures that made their home tucked away in the shelves. “I dunno, they just are.”   
  
“You do know, Richie.”

He hated when she did that. “Well it’s been almost ten years for starters.”

She nodded. “Okay. Go on.”

He shrugged, threw his hands in the air. “We’re older, I guess, and we don’t spend every waking hour together. We have our own separate lives. We have jobs and totally different schedules.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

She glanced over her notepad. “You said you two were very young when you met, in high school when you were at your closest, correct?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

  
“So do you think it might be accurate to say that maybe things aren’t all that different, and that both of you just grew up?” She smiled at him, not condescending, but assuring. She was right, she was always right, she got  _ paid _ to be right.

“Sure, yeah, maybe.”

“Can I ask you another question, Richie?”

He nodded again.

“Are you scared? Because I think you’re scared, worried, anxious.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Why don’t you talk about that a little bit more, as it pertains to your friend, Eddie, of course.”

“Well I guess I’m scared that he won’t like me anymore, that he’s moved on, and that he won’t like me the way he did when we were younger. And maybe that sounds stupid, but I miss him, and losing him took a lot out of me when I was younger.” He swallowed hard, scratched at the loose thread and fisted the fabric of his jeans with his other hand. “And if I lose him again, I’d either crash and burn or feel close to nothing at all, and I’m not sure which outcome scares me more. And things don’t have to go back to the way they were, but I want him in my life again. I’m just not sure if that’s realistic.”

“Richie…” she drawled, finished her scribbling, looked up at him over her glasses, “both you and Eddie have done a lot of growing up, a lot of maturing, a lot of aging and changing over the years, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“But you both cared deeply for each other in the past, when you last saw each other—before these past couple of weeks, I mean—you both cared about each other, loved each other.”

“Yeah,” he repeated himself, nodding.

“Okay, well what if I told you that just because you grow and change, it doesn’t necessarily mean that our love turns off. Maybe it changes too, but it’s not like a light switch, it's more like a… well you grew up in the eighties, didn’t you? It’s more like the vast generalization of technology. TVs don’t look the same now as they did when you were ten, do they? No, because they change and evolve over time based on what? New knowledge, learning, and catering to the demand of consumers today. But the televisions that we have now would have never existed without the one you had in your house growing up. Do you understand?”

“Not really…”

“Love is like the TV, Richie! It changes and evolves based on the demand of consumers. And you still have love for Eddie, don’t you?”

Richie nodded. “Yeah, sure, but—”

“Your love for him now doesn’t have to be the same as it was when you were younger. It’s okay for it to be different because that means it’s still there. Sure! Maybe it’s changed a bit over a decade, but it’s sure as hell still there! And that’s what matters. Understand now?”

“I think so.” Richie’s grip on his thigh eased. 

“Good because time’s up. It’s five o’clock already.” She scooted over to her desk, scuffing her little feet at the floor. “I want you to think about what I’ve told you today, Richie! Think about it before making decisions but don’t overthink. Love doesn’t overthink, your anxiety does, and that’s all in your brain. So please, Richie, before I see you next, learn to think half with your brain and all with your heart.” She handed him an appointment card between two fingers before showing him out the door.

  
  



	4. Mothman Vs Bigfoot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, you're your own biggest critic. I hope you all like this one.
> 
> CWs:   
> anxiety, capitalism and all it’s uncertainties, reference to hard drugs

“So have you made a move yet?”

Richie slumped back in his chair, legs extended straight out in front of him as he rested his cheek on his fist. “No. I’ve been telling him I’m too busy with work and stuff.”

“And  _ stuff _ ? Fucking Christ, you’re an asshole. How many times has he tried to reach out to set something up?”

“Like…two.”

Jessi shook her head. “If he calls you again, you tell him you’re going out with him, I don’t care what you say. He’s into you, he’s reached out multiple times. It’s your turn, jackass. You should call him and apologize for being an idiot.” She was mad at him, or for him, he couldn’t tell. He just knew that she was some kind of mad because the big hoops in her earlobes shook and wobbled around when she spoke. “Let him  _ know _ that you’re interested, or  _ he’s _ gonna start to think you’re an asshole, got it? Set a day and time, and don’t back out, or I’ll be the one to personally skin your ass.”

He just nodded shyly. “Yeah, got it.”   
  


“Good, ‘cause we’re going back on.”

Richie sat up, put his headphones back on properly, and flicked his microphone back on. When they weren’t playing music, their show was very conversational, with each other, with the audience. They had someone call in, thinking they’d want to weigh in on who would win in a fight: Bigfoot or Mothman. “I understand that Mothman has wings,” Richie had said, “but the question wasn’t who could fly away from the fight, the question was who would crush. And the obvious answer is Bigfoot. He would crush, literally.”

Jessi said, for the sake of argument, that Mothman would have stealth on his side and that Bigfoot was basically like the Hulk: lots of strength, but no brains. 

“The Hulk is literally a physicist, Jess.”

“No the Hulk to a giant rage monster, Bruce Banner has all the brains.” Jessi began to press some buttons and flip some switches. “Anyway, we have someone calling in. What’s your name, love?”

“Hi, Jessi. Hi, Richie. My name is Alex.”

Jessi leaned forward on their counter top, resting her chin in her hand. “Hey, Alex. What’s your whole take on this Bigfoot versus Mothman debacle?”

“Personally, I think Mothman would win. But I also think I have some bias there. Mothman is my favorite cryptid.”

Jessi raised an eyebrow at Richie, covering her microphone as she mouthed  _ favorite cryptid? _ Richie just shrugged. 

“But I also had a question, sorry if this is a little personal.”

“Shoot your shot, Alex. But if you try to pull some nasty sexist B.S., we’ll shut that shit down real fast.”

“No, no! Nothing like that. I was just wondering if Richie is okay? He’s been much more quiet than usual.”

Jessi rolled her eyes. “Crushing on Richie, Alex? He’s fine, trust me. He’ll live, really. Just a little heartache.”

“I’m not— My heart is just fine, Jessi, thank you very much.”

“I think you all need to know that Richie is blushing  _ hard _ right now. Sorry, Alex, but you’ve got some competition.”

Alex laughed awkwardly. “It’s okay. I’m sure whichever lucky lady Richie is after, she’ll be happy to have him.”

Jessi let out an almost cackle, and Richie tried his best not to make any incriminating noises. “Yeah, you’re right, Alex. Anyone would be lucky to have Richie if he’d just stop worrying all the damn time. Thanks for weighing in on this absolutely riveting debate, any last words, Alex?”

“No, I think that’s it. Glad to hear you’ll make it, Richie.”

“Okay, Alex. Have a good night.” She clicked Alex off their line and scrambled for the next songs she wanted to play. “I know Richie isn’t a fan, but this is my show too, so here’s some Salt-N-Pepa for you all.”

Richie switched off his mic again and pulled his headphone around his neck with a sigh. “Am I really that obviously depressed that our audience can tell?”

“You’re just being over dramatic. Do what I said, and there won’t be a problem.”

“Yeah, okay, but what if he decides he just doesn’t like me! What if he—” His phone buzzed in his back pocket, and that was strange not only because nobody ever called him but also because it was two in the morning. He pulled his phone out of his pants and flipped it open. “Richie Tozier speaking.”

“Richie, you idiot. It’s me.”

“Oh, hey, Eds. What are you doing up so late?”

Jessi snorted, laughed to herself. “ _ Eds _ , really?”

He flipped her off as Eddie continued to talk. “It’s Saturday night, so I— It’s not even that late, okay? What are  _ you _ doing up if it’s so late?”

“Well  _ I’m _ at work right now.”

“Oh, oh yeah.”

“So is there any special reason why I get to be graced with a call from Eddie Kaspbrak at two in the morning on a Saturday night, or were you just calling to say hi and yell at me?”

“God, you’re an ass,” Eddie huffed, and Richie thought he heard Jessi scoff something very similar. “I can’t believe I’m really going to do this again, but when are you free? I think that might work better than me asking you over just for you to tell me you're busy that day.”

“Forward, Eds. Very forward.” He thought for a moment, thought if he really wanted to throw himself into this, but then he thought about what Dr. Clark had told him: think half with his brain and all with his heart. And his heart was telling him to go see Eddie, his heart was always telling him that. “You know, I’m off tomorrow…or today, I guess. I know that’s pretty last minute, but—”

“I’ll take it. What time?”

“Uh…” He hadn’t actually expected Eddie to agree to that, thought he’d need at least a few days in advance to plan something as simple as meeting up with a friend, but Richie’d gotten this far, he could handle the rest. He’d have to. “Would it be lame if I said four?”

“No, that’s perfect. We can go get dinner, catch up.”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“If you bail, I’ll come to Brooklyn and find you, Richie.”

“Oh, I know you’d put forth a solid effort, but you’d get lost on the subway.”

“Fuck you, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See ya, Eds.”

When he hung up, Jessi had a shit eating grin on her face. “You’re such a dick,” she shook her head. “You get real fuckin’ cocky when you talk to him, you know that?”

“Whatever, Jessi.”

“No! It’s cute! You act like you have your shit under control. Bet he sees right through you though.”

Of course he did, he always had. Richie only made a shallow noise in the back of his throat though.

“Anyway, we’re back on after this song.”

“Why?”

“A lot of people are trying to call in,” she shrugged.

Richie flicked his microphone back on after he thought he heard the last of the  _ shoop _ ’s. “Just for the record, I do  _ not _ hate Salt-N-Pepa. I’ve always just been way too white to dance to them, and Jessi resents me for that.”

“Honey, you’re so white you can’t even dance to white people music.”

“You need to understand that the bar is set much lower for us, Jess. White people can dance as badly as they want to white people music.”

“Well I guess they can, I just don’t know that they should.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

“Alright, we do have lots of callers at the moment, we’ll try to get through as many as possible tonight. I’m assuming this is about the whole Bigfoot versus Mothman debate, but I guess we’ll find out.” She clicked somebody through. “Okay, who do we have on with us right now?”

“Hi! My name is Sara.”

“Well, hello, Sara. Bigfoot or Mothman?”

“Uhm…neither? I was actually wondering if you guys had room for a new segment?” They did that sometimes, nothing new. Listeners would call in and give feedback or ideas, that’s how they landed the whole cryptid segment in the first place. It’s the reason they had so many ratings because they did whatever the audience wanted. 

“There’s always room for more. Whacha got for us today, Sara?”

“Well, I’m actually in the car with all of my friends, and we’ve been listening for a while. We’re actually taking a road trip right now, but that’s beside the point. Uh, we were wondering if you could do a segment on Richie?”

“On me? What on me? That would be very boring, Sara.”

“On your heartache! I’m pretty sure we’re all curious. We want to know who she is! And if things work out!”

“No,” Richie said flatly. “That’s going to be a no.”

“ _ Richie _ !” Jessi swept in with a save on his utter bluntness. “Don’t shoot the idea down so quickly. I’ll try my best to convince him, Sara.”

To Richie’s misfortune for the rest of the night, most of their audience was not calling in to take a side for Bigfoot or Mothman. It only stressed him out even more, made him more anxious. He felt like he was back in Derry, and everyone’s eyes were on him. Things were different now because of where he was both geographically and mentally, but he still worried. He didn’t hide it anymore, but he wasn’t screaming it off the rooftops either. 

When he got in bed that night, he was glad he was smart enough to set an early time for tomorrow. He could get up, get ready, and leave, and he wouldn’t have time to overthink anything. Eddie sent him a text early that morning and told him to meet at some fancy restaurant in the Upper East Side. Richie still wasn’t sure if this was a date, he wasn’t sure that dates included “hanging out” and “catching up”, so he decided against stopping for flowers before he got on the subway. And maybe that was the wrong decision, but there’d always be next time. Richie thought that might be wishful thinking, but he was pretty impressed with himself. He was sure he set a new record because after only being awake for an hour, he was already finding ways to stress himself out.

He wasn’t exactly sure if what he was wearing was okay for where they were going, if Eddie would like it. Richie wasn’t sure  _ he _ was okay, if the gap in the front of his teeth was just as endearing as it had been when he was sixteen or if it just made him look stupid now that he was a fully functioning adult, or at least he was expected to be. He wasn’t sure if his messy, curly hair still held its charm or if it just made him look lazy. It was slowly creeping its way into a mini mullet, and he really needed a haircut, but when you sleep until three in the afternoon and start work at midnight, achieving the mundane was much more difficult than you’d think. 

Richie began to doubt if he ever actually grew up or if he just kept growing. Eddie grew up. Eddie definitely grew up. He was a therapist for fuck’s sake, he helped  _ other _ people grow up for a living. And maybe that’s why things felt so different. Maybe that’s why Richie was scared to dive into this again because he really wasn’t sure of himself, wasn’t sure that he was good enough. 

_ Same story, different day _ , Richie thought, but he got off the subway at ninety-sixth anyway because he made it work ten years ago, and he’d make it work again now.

Eddie was already at the place, waiting outside. “Late as usual, Richie,” Eddie chided, but a smile settled easily on his lips.

“Only by a few minutes! And in my defense it takes a solid hour for me to get all the way up here.”

“Whatever eases your conscience. Come on, I’m freezing out here.”

Richie followed him inside to the host’s table, and some fancy looking guy with a fancy looking mustache took their coats. Eddie gave his name to the woman standing behind the podium (Richie didn’t think that was quite the right word, but he didn’t think  _ desk _ was either. He wasn’t sure what you were supposed to call them when they weren’t used for making speeches). Apparently he had made a reservation this morning, and all this made Richie feel not only out of place but also second guessing the platonics of this “catching up”.

They were sat almost immediately, and Eddie smiled at him when the host left them with their menus. “So what do you think? Nice, right?”

“Uh, a candlelit dinner with wine at four in the afternoon? Sure as hell beats my regular coffee shop.”

“Is it too much? What time did you get up today?”

Richie huffed, “Might as well be ten in morning for me.”

“Well, one day of dinner for breakfast won’t hurt.”

“I’m not complaining.” He did, however, have to stop himself from objecting when he looked over the prices on the menu but told himself he could afford to splurge just once for Eddie’s sake. It only reminded Richie how much growing up Eddie really had done and how far behind Richie was. 

“Sorry if it’s a little over the top. I came here a while ago with some people that work in the same building as me, and now I think I’m just looking for excuses to come back.” He kept his gaze on his menu. “And I’d love to come with you to your Brooklyn coffee shop some time. Bet it's more fun there anyway.”

“Next time then.”

Eddie nodded, “Next time.” 

Richie wasn’t exactly sure what he ordered, but Eddie assured him that he’d like it. 

“So you host a radio show now? Bet that’s a blast.”

“Co-host actually. And it beats retail.”

“You worked in retail? Richie Tozier worked in retail? What, like a department store?”

“Well when I first moved to the city I worked as a barista.”

“Fancy,” Eddie nodded, holding his glass of wine similarly to how he held his paper cup of hot chocolate. 

“Then I worked at, yes, a department store.”

“No shit, did you have to like, size old ladies for like bras and shit?”

“Imagine? Twenty-two year old Richie Tozier getting up close and personal with boobs.” Richie fake shuddered and pretended to gag while Eddie snorted out a laugh that was probably too loud to be appropriate for a place like this. “Then I worked as a waiter, actually at a restaurant pretty similar to this. You know, with that rich fake people bullshit.”

“That’s good, but I’m still not over you working in a department store.” Eddie pressed two fingers to his ear and mocked, “ _ Richard to the women’s department. Richard, to women’s _ .”

“Adorable, Eds. Real cute.”

Eddie smiled to himself though, bit into his lip like he was holding back one of his snarky comments. “I’d like to see how it works sometime. I know you have to work and everything, but it must be pretty cool.”

Richie lifted an eyebrow. “Old lady boobs?”

“ _ No _ , you jackass,” Eddie snorted out another laugh though, nearly choked on his wine. “The radio station.”

“Ah, yes. If you’re willing to stay up past your bedtime, I’d be happy to show you.”

Eddie pursed his lips now. “I’m not twelve anymore.”

“Eds, you had a bedtime up until the very day you moved out.”

Eddie sat back in his chair. “Yeah, well…”

Richie could feel the tension in his chest. He didn’t mean to put it out there, but he had, and he couldn’t take it back now, only cover it up, make it less tight, less constricting. “Speaking of, how’s Sonia?” That only seemed to make things worse though.

“She died last year, Richie.”

“Shit,” Richie heaved. “Shit, Eds. I— I’m sorry.”

Eddie only shrugged, nervously twirling his wine glass. “What about Maggie?”

“Dunno. Haven’t spoken to her or Went in years.”

Eddie took a deep breath and sat forward again. “That’s okay though. You’re better off without them anyway.” He attempted an encouraging smile. “We both are, right?”

Richie nodded and smiled back, thought he felt Eddie’s ankle rub against his, intentional and lingering. “Yeah, Eds. You’re right.” Richie didn’t dare move his leg, and Eddie only pulled away when their food arrived. He wished he knew what that meant, wished he didn’t overthink things as much as he did, wished he could listen to Dr. Clark and think with his heart instead of his deranged, half-functional brain. 

“Wait,” Eddie scoffed half way through their meal, “so you’re telling me that  _ you _ and  _ Stan _ — Richie Tozier and Stan Uris—”

“Yeah, alright! Yeah, it was a one time thing, okay?” Don’t ask Richie how they ended up talking about past relationships because he wouldn’t be able to answer that. “Like, literally only lasted a weekend kinda one time thing.”

“How? I mean, I’m not trying to be an asshole, but from what I know about Stan, he would literally be repulsed by the idea of sleeping with you.”

“You know just because you say you’re not trying to be an asshole, doesn’t mean—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Richie shook his head but smiled nonetheless. “I dunno, it just…happened.”

“When?”

Richie shrugged. “Almost a year ago by now.”

“Huh, no shit.” Eddie poked at his food. “So…did he top or bottom?”

“ _ Eddie _ !”

“Okay, okay! Sorry.”

“No, I’m just offended at the insinuation that you think Stan could actually top.”

Eddie snorted, took in a mouthful of food. “I actually had a boyfriend when I was still an undergrad.”

Richie wasn’t sure why knowing that made him hurt the way it did, made him almost jealous. “Not surprised, Eds.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Richie shrugged. “You’re just…really good boyfriend material.”

“Boyfriend material? Like a shirt?”

“No. Nevermind.”

Eddie narrowed his eyes. “Is that supposed to be another department store joke?”

Richie snorted a laugh. “Wasn’t supposed to be a joke at all, Eds.”

Eddie paused, licked his lips, moved in a little closer. “I haven’t dated anyone since. Not seriously anyway. Just lots of hookups.”

Richie felt Eddie’s ankle against his again, and he thought he understood now. Eddie wasn’t looking for dates or for weekday cuddles and hugs that felt too close. He was looking for hookups, just hookups. “Yeah,” Richie nodded. “Me too.”

Considering all this, he found it extremely odd when Eddie insisted on paying the bill at the end of their meal, telling Richie that he could pay next time.  _ Next time _ , there wasn’t supposed to be a next time if all Eddie wanted was a simple one night stand. Richie found himself even more confused when they took their coats back, stepped out onto the sidewalk and instead of inviting Richie back to his place, Eddie said with a rather fond smile, “I could really go for some coffee right now, know a place?” And he tried not to let his heart swell because he thought that thinking with his heart instead of his head was just going to get him hurt eventually, couldn’t understand why Dr. Clark would want that for him. 

But Richie nodded and smiled back anyway, playing along with whatever game Eddie wanted to play because it meant that they got to spend just a little bit more time together. “So you really don’t use the subway much?” Richie asked when their train lurched forward, and Eddie tripped but still refused to touch anything in the car. 

“I have no need to. I walk to work, and everyone I talk to lives close.”

“And you’re still not a fan of germs? You know exposure therapy is a thing.”

“Just being in here is… _ distressing _ .”

Richie chuckled, and when the first stop of their ride nearly had Eddie on his ass, Richie just barely catching him, he pulled Eddie to his side. “ _ Pft _ , and you thought going to Rockefeller Center made you a fake New Yorker.”

“Fuck you.”

“Listen, Eds. Don’t stand facing the front or back of the train, stand sideways. You have more balance that way.” Richie held out his arm then. “And hold onto me if you have to. I promise I’m not nearly as germy as the subway.”

Eddie huffed, but grabbed onto Richie’s arm anyway, snaked his little fingers around the fabric of his many layers and moved in a little closer. “Bet you come pretty close though.” And they stood for a long time like that, finished out the rest of their twenty minute train ride like that only to hop on another train and reacquaint themselves into the same position for the next half hour. After a while, Eddie made himself comfortable, resting his head on Richie’s arm, and Richie found it harder and harder to believe that all Eddie wanted was a simple hookup when they weren’t quite feeling  _ close _ yet, but they were definitely getting there, definitely moving in that direction. 

It made Richie’s heart beat faster than normal, in a way that wasn’t quite made up of sheer panic but rather in a welcomed, oddly soothing way, high inducing.

“Do you still smoke, Richie?”

“Cigarettes? No, I quit years ago. Couldn’t afford ‘em anymore. Why?” Richie let Eddie step off the train first, watching as he carefully avoided the crack between the floor of the subway and the ground of the station.

“No, I meant…” He moved in close to Richie, elbows bumping as they walked. He whispered, “I meant weed.”

Richie laughed, “I’m sure NYPD has bigger things to worry about than weed, Eds. Don’t be so shy about it. Not like we’re talking about doing meth or…shooting up heroin or something stupid like that. It’s weed.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, but their elbows still brushed from time to time. “So is that a yes?”

“Yeah,” Richie shrugged, “like, regularly actually. It helps my anxiety at least a little bit. I don’t have panic attacks as much anymore.”

Eddie nodded. “Good for you.”

“Wait, do I smell? Is that why you asked?”

“No! Richie, you don’t smell. I was just super close to you, and I could still barely smell it.”

“But you still could. God, that’s gross. I’m sorry.”

“Richie!” Eddie grunted, bringing his hand to Richie’s elbow. “You don’t smell, I promise. You smell…fine.” Then Eddie’s hand lingered there, wrapped around his arm and stayed, holding on the same way he had on the subway. The tips of his ears sticking out of his knit hat turned red when Richie looked down at him.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Okay, I trust you, Eds.”

“Good.” Eddie turned his gaze to his feet, fingers slipping gently down to Richie’s wrist, hanging on a little tighter there. 

“So if I don’t smell like weed, what do I smell like?”

“God,  _ really _ , Richie?”

“Yeah, you seemed to get a good whiff.  _ So… _ ”

Eddie dropped his hand, made a show of pushing Richie away. “You smell like an asshole, Richie.”

“ _ Mmm _ …somehow I think I’ve managed to downgrade.”

“Leave it to you.”

Richie held the door open for Eddie, gesturing for him to enter first. “Your highness.”

Eddie didn’t miss the chance to roll his eyes, but Richie didn’t miss the smile that pulled at the corner of Eddie’s mouth. He felt strangely proud of himself when he made Eddie smile or laugh. It felt similar to when they were young, and all Richie could think about was making Eddie happy. It brought a familiar swell to his chest. 

This time, Richie paid and they took a seat at one of the window tables. Richie had ordered not only some coffee, but pastries as well. He liked to eat, maybe a little too much for this own good, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. When he couldn’t sit down for a smoke, he started to stress eat instead. Dr. Clark said that he should start choosing healthier options when he felt the need to snack, and if he didn’t want any of those, then he wasn’t really hungry. Richie called bullshit because you don’t eat apples with your coffee. That’d be gross and weird. You do, however, eat a double chocolate brownie with your coffee.

“I dunno how you can still eat after dinner.”

Richie shrugged, took a sip of his coffee, and slowed his pace on eating. He cleared his throat, sat up more straight. “I dunno, maybe it’s ‘cause I’m so much bigger than you, I need more sustenance.” 

Eddie shook his head. “If you call me short or small one more time—”

“I didn’t! I called myself big and comparatively, you’re smaller.” He paused, mulling over the idea of teasing Eddie some more. “Besides, I’ll cool it on the short jokes when you cool it on the fat jokes.”

“I didn’t—” Eddie caught himself, lowered his voice, and slapped Richie’s wrist, letting the fork and chunk of brownie on it fall to the table. “I didn’t call you fat, shithead.” Eddie’s fingers lingered there, dancing over Richie’s wrist and the back of his hand. Richie couldn't help but notice how small Eddie’s hands still were, wanted to hold them, lay Eddie’s palm on top of his and compare.

“Joking. I was just joking, Eds.” He chewed on his lip, Eddie’s fingers still teasing his own. “You know I like your height. I know I make a lot of jokes, but I like it, I like your size. You’re very attractive, height included.”

Eddie stifled his smirk as he glanced down at their hands, tapping and rubbing imaginary patterns into Richie’s thumb. “Yeah, well…I like your chub.”

Richie halted, paused only for a second. He stiffened and bit down on the inside of his cheek and tried his best not to let all the involuntary things happen like letting his cheeks go bright pink. Then he leaned forward a little, gave a slight grin, quickly regaining his composure. “Eddie Spaghetti, you’ve never even seen my chub.”

Richie watched his shoulders fall at the old nickname, his head cocking to one side and his eyes rolling ever so slightly, but one corner of his lips quirked up just a bit, and he looked up at Richie with those doe eyes, fingers still dancing over the skin of his hand. “Is that an invitation, Tozier?”

Richie licked his lips, and he might have absolutely collapsed right then and there if he hadn’t noticed a familiar face enter the shop. “Fuck, uh…” Richie pulled away, but as soon as he could no longer feel Eddie’s touch, he regretted it. “Eds, do me a favor. Please, don’t turn around, and I know we just got done talking about how small you are, but do your best to hide me.” He shrunk in on himself as best he could.

“The only thing I heard was  _ don’t turn around _ , and that only makes me want to turn around. I don’t even know what I’m looking for Richie, but I wanna turn around.”

“Don’t you dare.  _ Fuck _ .” He made direct eye contact with Jessi, and she immediately lit up, stepping out of line and heading in their direction. “Okay, listen. I’m sorry in advance.”

“What?” Eddie looked confused now, smile still playing at his lips as he moved to look behind him, but Jessi was already seating herself down between them, dragging a chair over from the table next to theirs.

“Well hello, Richie. Funny running into you here, huh?” She turned to Eddie then, big, bright smile on her face as she held her hand out. “I’m Jessi. Richie’s co-worker.”

He shook her hand carefully. “I’m Eddie.”

She smiled even bigger, “Ah, yes. I’ve heard a lot about you, Eddie.” Richie was getting ready to tackle her, and he did everything in his power to not look at Eddie. She was looking at him now, her smile fading as she reached for a napkin. “Richie, hon…” She wiped the corner of his mouth. “Are you eating your food or just working on getting it all over your face?”

“Really, Jess?” And then he realized that he had just been flirting hard core with food all over his face, but Eddie started it, so he thought maybe that said more about Eddie than himself. He got a boost of confidence knowing that Eddie was that into him, even if Jessi had just treated him like he was her toddler. Richie glanced back to Eddie, and he was staring daggers at Jessi as she crumpled up the napkin and tossed it back on the table.

“You need a haircut too, look at this.” She tugged at the tufts along the nape of his neck, they started to curl now because of how long it was starting to get.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it: watch how I eat and get a haircut. Thanks, mom.”

She smiled at him, but he didn’t look amused. “Well, I just wanted to say hi, introduce myself.” She stood and pushed her chair back over to the other table. “I’ll see you at work, Rich. Nice meeting you, Eddie.”

“Yeah, you too.” He pushed the smile back on his face as she left before he leaned forward, resting his cheek in his palm as he pursed his lips at Richie. That look usually meant that he’d done something wrong, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of what he could’ve done in the past two minutes that changed the mood so drastically.

“You okay, Eds?”

He raised his eyebrows before letting out a sigh and looking down at his coffee, fiddling with the cup sleeve. “You two seem pretty close.”

“Uh, I guess so, we’ve known each other for a couple years now.”

“So…you’re together, right?”

“What? Eddie, we just had a conversation about how ridiculous the idea of me and boobs is. I’m gay. I’ve been gay since I was like, ten.”

Eddie mulled over the words, took a sip of his coffee, still didn’t look at Richie. “Yeah but Stan’s gay and he still likes girls too.”

“That’s different. I’m not Stan.”

“I dunno, you two seemed pretty close to me.”

“Wait, are you…jealous, Eds?”

“No!” He leaned back in his chair as he rolled his eyes and his cheeks went pink. “I just think it’s pretty shitty that you’d agree to meet up since you’re obviously interested in someone else.”

“Eddie, for the millionth time, I’m gay. I like dick, never been interested in women, and I never will be.” Richie sat back in his chair, crossing his arms in a huff as he watched Eddie avert his eyes at all costs. “And what do you mean it’s shitty that I’d agree to meet up if I’m interested in someone else, which I’m  _ not _ , but it’s not like this is a date, Eds. Come on.”

“No, I guess it’s not.” His words settled strangely in the air. After letting them stir for a moment, Eddie thanked him for the coffee, voice tight when he told Richie that he had to go. “I have work in the morning.”

Richie sighed but nodded.

“Take me home?”

Richie nodded again, and he held back a proud smile. Eddie held onto him again on their way back north, his arms wrapped around Richie’s elbow. A lot of people looked, some didn’t, but Richie couldn't bring himself to care because Eddie was holding on so tight, so fondly. When they got off the first train, Eddie was reluctant to let go, dragging his little fingers along Richie’s arm as he pulled away. “You think you can handle this next one on your own?”

Eddie shrugged, “I’ll just scrub myself when I get home.”

Richie nodded and let out a small laugh. “Remember you’re getting off at eighty-sixth.”

Eddie nodded too before pushing himself up for one last hug. “Don’t ignore me, or else I’ll come find you.”

“ _ Psh _ , you don’t know where I live.”

“No, but I bet Stan does.”

“Shit.”

Eddie chuckled, fingers falling briefly in the curls at Richie’s nape before stepping onto his train. Richie watched through the grimey window as Eddie weighed his germy options.

~*~

_ “You’re fucking doing it wrong,” Eddie slapped Richie’s shoulder over and over. “You’re doing it wrong! You’re gonna fucking lose if you keep doing it like that!” _

_ “I’m gonna lose because you keep hitting me, asshole!” Richie didn’t have the guts to shove him back though. Maybe around this time last year he would’ve, but he’s been growing quite the soft spot for Eddie.  _

_ “See! What did I tell you! Dead!” Eddie’s twelve year old nostrils flared as he waved his hands around. Richie’s Pac-Man blinked away in the wake of its final and third death. “Move.” Eddie pushed him over with his hip and threw another token in the machine’s slot. Richie watched as Eddie yanked violently at the joystick. “See! You gotta move fast! And stay away from the ghosts, but I thought that one was common sense.” _

_ Richie rolled his eyes, getting ready to throw a quip back, but his eyes caught sight of his neighbor—a girl his age that wouldn’t ever leave him alone in school and on weekends. He practically had to run out of the house sometimes and sprint down the sidewalk just to avoid her when he headed over to Bill’s on Saturdays.  _

_ Now she was plowing through the arcade, pushing past teenage boys to get to Richie. “Hi, Richie!” _

_ “Hi, Leila,” he couldn’t help the way it came out as a sigh, and Eddie almost died doing a double take, quickly regaining his composure.  _

_ “My mom is planning a pool party for me, not this weekend, but the weekend after that. On that Saturday. And she talked to your mom and she said, well they  _ both agreed _ that it would be a good idea for you to come, and I just wanted to tell you because…” Leila liked to talk, and she would talk and talk and talk until Richie just wanted to tell her to shut up or walk away. It was different from the way Richie liked to talk. Leila wasn’t funny, and she never talked about anything interesting like video games or the frogs she found in the woods—Leila never actually liked to venture into the woods, but Richie thought she might be a lot more fun if she did. “Oh! My mom’s outside waiting. I gotta go, but I’ll see you on Saturday, Richie. You better come.” _

_ Richie sighed, brows and lips tense after tuning her out for so long. He turned back to Eddie, and Eddie stared back up at him, eyes wide and big and angry and a purse on his lips. Richie knew he was about to get yelled at. “What is she your girlfriend or something?” he spoke fast accusatory words. _

_ “No! I don’t even like her! She just follows me around!” _

_ “Yeah, alright. You know we have plans next Saturday, right? We’re going to the quarry, and you already said you were going, so you better not back out, asshole.” _

_ “I’m not!” _

_ Eddie huffed out an angry sigh. “You know I just won and I only lost one life and you didn’t even see because you were too busy talking to your girlfriend.” _

_ “She’s not my girlfriend!” _

_ They did, in fact, all go to the quarry the following Saturday. Maggie Tozier begged and pleaded for Richie to go to Leila’s pool party, said it would be good for him to make more friends. Richie bolted after breakfast though, grabbing his bike and meeting Bill, Stan, and Eddie. In most parts of the water, Eddie was too short for his feet to reach the ground, but on the off chance that his toes skimmed the slimy, rocky floor of the quarry, he’d jump and scream and grab onto Richie’s arm nearly drowning him half the time. Sometimes his fingers would linger on Richie’s elbow or shoulder or wrist, and Richie didn’t have the guts to shove him away because he’d been growing quite the soft spot for Eddie.  _

  
  



	5. Queer Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I really, really love the backstory that I got to add to this chapter.
> 
> CWs:   
> queer/sexual harassment, Richie jokes about AIDS, trauma, anxiety, shame surrounding mental illness, unhealthy coping habits, more in depth discussion of AIDS, queer violence particularly in reference to police brutality and police raids, queer slur, panic/anxiety attacks (i’m sorry i’ve had so many of these in my life and I still can’t tell the difference), queer stereotypes, accidental coming out

Richie pushed through all the garbage in the breakroom’s cabinets. He went on in ten, but he was hungry, and he could’ve  _ sworn _ he left a bag of chips somewhere in here a while ago. “Come on,” he muttered to himself, eventually succumbing and forcing himself to look in the bottom cabinets. “Where the fuck did you  _ go _ ?”

“Having a little trouble there, Rich?” Pete opened up the fridge and pulled out his gross fucking yogurt.

Richie tried his very best not to say anything that might get him fired. “Just looking for some snacks.” Finally, he found the bag wedged into the back of one of the lower cabinets. He didn’t know who the fuck put them there because it definitely wasn’t him, but he was also sure that they’d been sitting there since he was an intern. Richie stood, pleased with himself and his probably expired snack.

“Do you go on soon?”

_ Like you care…  _ “Yeah, why?” Richie turned to Pete, and regretted it the instant they made eye contact because for some grand reason, Pete decided to fling a spoonful of his disgusting vanilla flavored yogurt at Richie’s face.

“Shit, man. Sorry. You better go get that cleaned up, but hey…” Pete let out a slimy chuckle, “bet you’re used to that kinda thing, right? You know…” He made an exaggerated motion with his hand at his crotch, jerking off an imaginary dick.

Richie took a deep breath, pursed his lips, smeared the yogurt off his cheek and from around his eye. He looked at Pete and his grimey fucking face, and Richie told himself that he wasn’t going to have a panic attack, that he was grown and ignorant people with barely half a brain like Pete and Bowers shouldn’t have any affect on him because he was six feet tall now and just over two-hundred pounds. He could handle himself. “You know what, Pete? You’re right.” He could feel his hands begin to shake as he lifted his fingers covered in yogurt and patted Pete’s face with it. “Be careful,” he nodded at Pete before heading for the door, “could catch AIDS from that yogurt.” Richie watched the split second of panic wash over Pete’s face—like he was actually dumb enough to believe it—before he pushed through the door and headed for the bathroom. 

He washed his hands and his face, and he focused on his breathing just like Jessi had taught him. Richie took a seat in their studio, not very hungry anymore as he tossed the chips on the counter in front of him, and he forced a smile when Jessi tried telling him about something, maybe about a new segment, but he wasn’t really sure, wasn’t really listening. He was too busy trying to keep his breathing even.    
  
“Fuck’s sake, Tozier, are you even listening?” Jessi swatted at his shoulder, and Richie jumped a little, couldn’t help it. He wasn’t scared, he promised he wasn’t. He didn’t know why he jumped. “What’s wrong?”

  
“Nothing,” Richie shook his head and forced another smile, but for some reason that overwhelmed him even more. 

“Richie, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing! I said it’s nothing! It’s stupid.”

“Is it about Eddie? Is it—”

“ _ No _ , Jess. It’s  _ nothing _ . Just drop it.”

“Rich…”

“We have to go on soon.” He took a deep breath and held in his chest for as long as he could manage, started to flip some switches and press some buttons, stopped and dragged his headphones over one ear when his vision misted over too heavily and he had to blink, blink, breath.

“Richie,” her voice dropped, stern but careful. He didn’t respond. “Look at me.” Richie glanced up, and was sure he looked absolutely terrified. “What happened?”

“Pete is just being an asshole, that’s all…” he heard his voice crack, took another deep breath and held it. 

Her shoulders dropped. “What’d he do?” 

He shook his head. “It’s not a big deal, Jessi. I promise I’m fine.”

“You’re a fucking liar, Richie Tozier.” She scooted closer in her chair. “You can talk to me, Richie.”

“It’s gonna sound really dumb. I’m sure you’ve dealt with much worse, it’s not my place to bitch and whine about—”

“ _ Hey _ .” She grabbed his chin in her hand, forced him to look at her. “That’s bullshit, okay? Don’t tell yourself that, alright? We’re not here to compare hardships, or say who has it worse off. We don’t do that, you got it? Because that shit’s not gonna get us anywhere. Now you tell me what that little piece of shit did before I go punch it out of him myself.”

Richie took a shaky breath, pursed his lips. “He threw his nasty fucking yogurt in my face and then made some stupid joke about cum.”

Jessi’s hand dropped from Richie’s face as she sat back in her chair, and she moved her lips like she wanted to say something, but her brows only knit together in silence. 

“I told you, it’s fine,” he huffed quietly before pressing some more buttons. “We’re live soon.”

Richie let Jessi take control of the first couple of minutes of the show, just so he could try to relax and push the panic back down, but the plan backfired on him. She told him to eat. “It’ll wake you up,” she told him in front of their audience, but when he told her he wasn’t hungry. She pursed her lips at him, and then she made their listeners call in just to tell him to eat. “Richie’s not gonna be any fun tonight if we don’t get him to eat.” So on their first commercial and song break, he ripped open the bag of chips. “I know this may not be the best time to bring it up, but have you thought about that new segment at all?”

Microphones off and crumbs falling down his shirt, Richie raised his eyebrows. “You mean the one about my nonexistent fucking love life?”

“Exactly the one I was referring to.”

“Lovely.”

“Listen, we don’t have to, and I totally get you not wanting to. But I think it could be fun, and it’s not like our listeners would care, Rich. They want this.”

“No, Jess. Amy and Dana and Michelle and Hannah want to hear about me fucking some girl, not me pining after some  _ guy _ that’s obviously out of my league.”

“Alright, first of all, he’s totally into you, Rich. I could tell that from spending not even five minutes with the two of you. I touched you once and I thought he might jump across the table to body slam me. Second, don’t get too cocky. Dana and Hannah just want drama, whether it has anything to do with your dick or not.”

Richie thought about it, finished chomping on his mouthful of chips before saying, “What if we just don’t mention that Eddie’s a guy?” Sometimes he could push it down and out of the way if he caught it early enough, swallow it and ball it up in his stomach to let it come back up later. He could push the panic down and act on some basis of normalcy for the rest of the night until he got home and allowed himself to crash and burn. Sometimes it wasn’t so bad anymore, and he could manage to push it off for later, just be on edge the whole night, but he wouldn’t panic.

“I mean, I guess if that’ll make you more comfortable, but that’s gonna be kinda tricky.”

“We can try tonight. If I end up outing myself to all of New York, I’ll just blame you.” He kept breathing, holding it in, letting it out.

“Oh, come on, that's not fair! I’m giving you a choice, Richie.”

Richie patted the remaining salt and potato flakes out of the bag and into his mouth. “Mhm, yep.” He brushed off his shirt, sat up straight.

“I  _ am _ , you dipshit! Don’t do it if you don’t want to.”

But then he acted on impulse. He could push things down and push them down further and further, and he would do stupid things that he’d proabbly regret, but he wouldn’t panic, and that felt good. That was worth it.

Half way through the night, Richie was up. He took a deep breath after the commercial break and leaned towards the mic. “Well, you guys wanted this, so tonight we’ll be talking about my non-existent sex life. You’re welcome.” He told his listeners about how he’d met up with a bunch of old friends, how “My ex from high school was there because we were all friends, we’ll call this person E for privacy’s sake. Mind you, my friends have let me in a little secret, I’m apparently still bat shit crazy about E.”

Richie talked and talked and talked, and he told them about nearly everything, everything except for Eddie’s real name. “Yeah, so everything is going great, I really think E is feeling the vibes, you know? And then Jessi decides to come in, inform me that I have food all over my face, and then she  _ leaves _ ! E was ready to high tail it outta there after that, this poor soul thought that  _ we _ were dating, Jess. I mean, come on, I love you, but that would literally never happen.”

“Trust me, Richie, I’ve seen your apartment, I have no desire to have any sort of relationship with you beyond platonics.”

He eyed her at first, and she gave him an unamused look. “Anyway, I take E home, because this child of a person has been living in the city for years now and still has no idea how to take the subway properly, and E…” Richie hears himself sigh a little bit and catches himself as he leans his cheek into his palm, “E holds onto me the whole ride home, like genuinely holds me, and I can’t even begin to describe to you all how absolutely blissed the fuck out I was.  _ Pft _ , who needs sex when you can just like, hug, right? I think that’s really underrated, just like, holding hands and being present with someone you love.”

“Oh my  _ god _ , Richie. When did you become such a sap?”

“When I saw E again. Huh,” he laughed dryly, “just imagine little teenage Richie writing love letters.”

“You did  _ not _ .”

“I  _ did _ .” They got in a lot of calls that night, many of them asking what he looked like, both Richie and Eddie. “You guys are a bunch of creeps,” Richie laughed, “I’m calling E,  _ E _ for a reason. If you really wanna know what I look like though, then do what any normal person does and check the internet. I’m sure there’s like, a station website or some shit, a myspace or whatever the fuck. Go nuts.”

Richie went home that night not realizing how shaky he actually was talking about Eddie on air. He again pushed it all down, breathed according to his exercises and tried his very best not to freak out before he at least got to his apartment. It worked for the second time that night, and he settled into bed, not falling asleep until the sun had already fully risen, the light of the day shining through his curtains.

~*~

_ Richie chewed on one of his fingers, tearing at a hangnail and ripping too far back. He hissed, let go of the skin before huffing and taking a sip of his beer. Sometimes he would bite it back too far, tear until it bled, wouldn’t know until later when deep red crusted over in the seam between his fingernail and the skin. Joey wanted to go out, and Richie didn’t, really really didn’t, but Joey didn’t want to go out alone which was perfectly reasonable, so Richie ended up going out too, sitting at the bar, sulking, watching everyone else sweat and laugh and jump and squirm.  _

_ “You don’t look like the type to be getting into fights, doll,” a regular bartender—old and Black and beautiful, somehow not yet wrinkled—commented from behind the counter. _

_ Richie leaned forward, slumping his cheek into his fist. “I’m not.” _

_ “So who gave you those nasty cuts on your face. You’re cute, too cute to be walking around like that.” _

_ He averted his gaze to the beer bottle resting in his other hand, blush quickly creeping up his neck. Never being very good at receiving compliments, he only shrugged. “Some asshole.” _

_ He hummed. “I hope you mean a lover and not some bigot, but I don’t think you do.” _

_ Richie laughed, always privy to butt jokes. Really he never grew up even though he had a job and lived on his own and went bar hopping on the weekends, fart jokes were just as funny as they were when he was twelve. “No, I don’t.” _

_ “You’re a small town boy, aren’t you?” He nodded, lips tucked tight into a curt smirk. “Not from around here, not from a big city.” _

_ “Small town in Maine.” _

_ “Figured as much. How old are you, sweetheart?” _

_ Had he not been as drunk as he was, he might’ve protested at all the questions, all the prying, but he knew the guy well enough, seen him around enough. “Just turned twenty-one.” _

_ He smiled and nodded. “You’re young.” Then he turned serious. “You know to be  _ safe _ right?” _

_ Richie wasn’t really sure what that meant, or maybe he wasn’t sure how he meant it. “Sure,” he said instead. _

_ “‘Cause this isn’t bubblefuck Maine, love. This is the big apple. We might have places like this, community, grown family instead of born family, but with that comes a whole lot more shit than you could ever imagine.” _

_ He didn’t respond, only nodded to say he was listening. _

_ “You got AIDS where you come from?” _

_ “Sure we did.” _

_ “Yeah, but you  _ got _ AIDS? You ever seen it, felt it, loved it? ‘Cause we got a whole lot of that here, you know. They don’t like to talk about it ‘cause it’s been so long, but it’s here,” he nodded. “It’s here, and it’s not going away, and that shit’s real. More real than those scrapes you got on your cheek there, and trust me I’ve gotten plenty of those, plenty of those times a hundred, baby, I’ve been in this very bar since the fifties, love, trust me I’ve seen my fair share, but I’ve never seen anything like this. So when I ask if you know to be safe, doll, I damn well hope for a better answer than  _ sure _.” _

_ Richie nodded, pursed his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” _

_ “Good,” he followed that up with one crisp nod, then his lips broke into another smile. “Go ahead, ask me.” _

_ Richie’s brows furrowed, but his mouth mimicked the other man’s as his face perked up from its space on his fist. _

_ “Ask me how old I am.” _

_ A grin spread across Richie’s lips. “How old are you?” _

_ “Sixty years young, love. And now you’re supposed to say—” _

_ “Sixty? You don’t look a day over thirty!” They laughed, and Richie got to hear about Charles, he learned his name was, and the performances he used to put on here decades ago. Big hair and bigger makeup, dresses and sparkles and high heel shoes. Charles would sing and dance, and everyone loved him, loved his face and his voice and his body until the blue and red shone flashing through the bar’s windows, and his friend Marty would lead him to the back rooms to help him hide because he was still under age. But eventually they found him. Eventually they found everyone.  _

_ Richie hadn’t really thought of the consequences, the real consequences of what would have happened until now. “S’is that true?” Chief Bowers had asked. “The part about you and that other kid bein’ queers and all.  _ That _ true?” He hadn’t really known, even if he did deep down, he hadn’t known what the consequences would have been if he would’ve replied, “Yeah, your son calls me a fag, and fuck yeah I am a fag.” _

_ Richie remembered feeling shame, guilt in his weak “no,” but now he was grateful for it, had learned the difference between shame and self preservation. _

~*~

Richie set out in making dinner for the night, even if it was only breakfast time for him. He rummaged through Eddie’s pantries and fridge to see what he’d be able to put together. Once he was finally satisfied with his findings, he got to work. “Do you need any help, Richie?” Eddie leaned over his kitchen island, but when Richie insisted that he was fine, Eddie took a seat on the couch. 

“Shit,” he muttered, adding the milk to his saucepan just a little too fast. It would curdle, but maybe if he just turned to burner down a little and stirred fast enough, he could compensate. Deep breaths.

“Everything alright in there?” Eddie hummed, not even bothering to look up from the TV. “Can’t have you burning down my apartment. I don’t think Ms. Kersh next door would be too happy.”

“Everything’s fine,” Richie pursed his lips, trying his very best to just keep breathing because there was no way he was going to let himself start to panic in front of Eddie, and definitely not over something so stupid. After a few more minutes of regulating everything, he managed to get things under control, both on the stove and in himself. His timer on the stove went off, and he’ll admit that he jumped just a little. Then he checked his pasta to make sure it was cooked well enough before draining it in the sink. 

Except Eddie didn’t have a collider because he never cooked for himself, so he had to drain the water using only the pot and the lid. He thought maybe it was his nerves, but somehow he managed to not only splash himself with boiling water but also told himself to ignore it in favor of letting the steam plume up over his already burning hand. And really, it didn’t hurt all that bad, but he was starting to get overwhelmed, and he was sweating too much, and the steaming sink didn’t help.

He set the pot back down on the stove and stared at it for a long moment, breathed, blinked over and over and bit down into his bottom lip until it stung. When none of it helped, he let out a defeated, “ _ Shit _ .”

“Think of Ms. Kersh, Richie!” Eddie laughed from the couch, and Richie tried his very best to laugh back but it came out a sob. He could feel every beat of his heart in his chest, every nervous pump of blood. There was a tightness behind his ribs, and he couldn’t catch his breath. “Richie?” When had Eddie gotten so close? He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to move, didn’t want to give up his grip on the counter top. “Richie. Hey, look at me.”

He only squeezed his eyes shut tighter. 

“Richie, it’s okay. Can I touch you?”

“I don’t—” his voice shook, and his heart felt like someone held it tightly in their fist, tugging and wringing. “Yeah.” He nodded, and only opened his eyes again when he felt Eddie turn him around, felt Eddie’s hands on his shoulders. 

“Breathe, Richie. Do you know any breathing exercises that work for you?” Eddie dug his fingers gently into the slope of Richie’s shoulders. 

He nodded.

“Good. Focus on those. Look at me. Keep your eyes open, okay?” His voice was too quiet, he was too calm. Richie felt like he was on the brink of cardiac arrest, and Eddie stood there with the gentlest voice and the kindest eyes. “Look around the room. Keep breathing, and tell me five things that you see.”

“I don’t know why—”

“Breathe.” Eddie’s fingers smoothed over his shoulders. “Five things that you see. They can be anything.”

“Uh…” Richie tried to keep his breathing under control. “The TV. The couch. Uhm…” Breathe in, hold it. “Your kitchen table. The plants in your window.” Breathe out, hold it. “The mug on your coffee table.”

“Good. Now tell me three things that you feel, physically.”

“The heat…from the stove.” He sniffled, thought. “My shirt is…a little tight. You, your hands, I mean. Is that okay?”

“That’s perfect.” Eddie ran his fingers along Richie’s shoulders again. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay. Better… Still a little dizzy.”

“Go sit down. I’ll finish up, okay?”

“Okay. Okay. Just, uhm…just put the pasta in the pan, and—”

“Go sit, Richie.” Eddie didn’t sound annoyed or bothered or frustrated either. He just sounded relieved, content, in control, but Richie sat on the couch where Eddie used to be and listened to the pots and pans and silverware clink up against each other as he tried his best to keep his breathing even. It was easier now, and his chest didn’t hurt as much, but he still felt exhausted even if Eddie had managed to calm him down quickly enough. He tried to tell himself, to let himself know, that it wasn’t the pasta, that it wasn’t  _ just _ the pasta, that he wasn’t that out of control, that it was Pete, and going to therapy, and Eddie’s feet under the table, and the guy that slammed into his shoulder last week on the subway, and talking about Eddie live on the radio. It was all of those things.

Eddie sat down next to him, handed him a bowl of food, and when Richie just sat and stared, Eddie reached a gentle hand up the nape of Richie’s neck. He’d finally gotten a haircut, so the hair was short and prickly there, and Eddie scratched careful fingers along the buzzed edges. “You should eat. At least a little bit.”

Richie would stress eat, he was well aware of that, so during the period between panic attacks where he just sort of felt on edge and jittery, he could eat and eat and eat. But after the build up passed, and the attack finally hit, he would lose his appetite. He knew it was insanely unhealthy, but he also thought listening to his body was best, and right now it was telling him not to eat or he might throw up. “I’m not very hungry,” he muttered softly. The thought made him want to cry again, not in an overwhelmly panicked sense, but he was so absolutely defeated. “I’m sorry I made a mess in your kitchen and now I’m not even eating.”

Eddie set his bowl down, freeing both his hands so they could find Richie instead. The new one landed softly against his cheek, and Richie hated to admit how eager he was to lean into it. “Richie, I want you to listen to me.” He forced his eyes up no matter how awkward and uncomfortable it felt. “Do not apologize for things you can’t control. Ever.”

“But I feel bad, I—”

Eddie shook his head. “Don’t.” He took a deep breath then. “Don’t feel bad.” Eddie sat back, touch lingering just a bit longer than was necessary, fond and careful. “Eat at least a little bit. Please.”

Richie complied, more so to sate Eddie’s conscience than his own. 

Eddie took care of the dishes that night. Richie still felt awful, guilty, like Eddie felt some sort of unnecessary responsibility to take care of him, to nurture him, to baby him. He couldn’t muster the courage to complain though because he was exhausted, drained from the overwhelming pressure in his chest, like he’d been carrying it around for days, and every hour it grew heavier and heavier until that tightness, that tenseness in his body was released along with any bit of energy he had left.

“Lay down if you want,” Eddie spoke softly when he sat down again, legs stretched out with his ankles crossed on the coffee table and an arm thrown comfortably over the backrest. 

“I don’t…” Richie hesitated, shook his head. “I don’t need to.”

Eddie’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “Well you can if it’ll make you more comfortable.” He pat his lap. “Lay down, you can lay down.”

“Well, I—” He was running on empty, brain shutting down, and limbs growing tired. It was too hard to think of excuses and Eddie’s thighs were looking very inviting right about now. “I don’t have to.”

“But you can if you  _ want _ to, Richie.” Eddie nodded, smiling cautiously. “Do you want to? I promise I won’t try to therapize you.”

Richie nodded, giving in. “Yeah, sure. Yeah. Okay, good.” He took a deep breath in, refreshing, like he’d been holding stagnant air in his lungs and hadn’t even noticed. Then, carefully, gently, hesitantly, he rolled onto his back, head resting against Eddie’s legs and feet hanging off the opposite end of the couch. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” Eddie shook his head and reached soft fingers into Richie’s hair.

“You really don’t have to, Eddie.”

“Are you comfortable, Richie?”

He swallowed hard, nodded, didn’t want to say the wrong thing.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“Only if you’re not okay with it.”

“I asked you to be here, Richie, didn’t I?”

He nodded again.

“Okay. So I’ll ask you one more time.” A quiet smile fell effortlessly on his face. “Does this make  _ you _ uncomfortable?” Eddie had done so much growing, physically and mentally. Of course, the physical part was obvious from the moment Richie first saw him again on Bowery in Chinatown. But he was different now, mentally he was different, better, Richie thought, but maybe better wasn’t quite the right word. Grown. Experienced.  _ Comfortable _ .

“No.” Richie didn’t think that he was any of those things yet.

“Good.” Eddie took a deep breath before returning his gaze to the TV, and Richie watched the rise and fall of his chest. He tried with everything in him to release the stiffness of his bones, but Eddie’s fingers moving daintily along the side of his head was nearly enough to lull him. “Richie?”

He opened his eyes again, hadn’t even noticed he’d closed them. “Yeah?”

“You know…” He hesitated only for a moment, voice still floating through the air easily as he spoke. Eddie reached his other hand down to Richie’s chest, looked like something behind his eyes was nagging at him. “You know you’re safe here, right?”

_ Safe _ , Richie thought. He was nearly twenty-eight. He was grown, and he managed to find a job that he not only liked but was enough to support his lifestyle (or lack thereof), even if the people he worked with absolutely did not make him feel safe—sans Jessi. Richie thought maybe that’s not really what Eddie meant. He closed his eyes again and thought,  _ three things you can feel _ . Eddie, Eddie all around him—Eddie under him, Eddie in his hair, Eddie on his chest. The couch pressed into his back. Safe. He felt safe.

“Richie?” Eddie scratched a little harder at the side of his head.

“Yeah,” Richie nodded. “I’m safe.”

Richie woke up in the middle of the night curled into Eddie’s thigh. Eddie’s head hung painfully, bent at the neck over the backrest of the couch. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, reached for his glasses on the table in front of him even though he never remembered taking them off. He stretched and yawned. It was already dark out again, and for a moment he thought of waking Eddie up, telling him to go to bed. The trains back to Brooklyn didn’t run very often this late, so he’d be spending the night anyway. 

Maybe it was all the sleep or the only three pieces of pasta that he forced down hours ago, but he decided against waking Eddie up and carried him to bed instead. After snooping around sleepily, finding his bedroom, and pulling the blankets down, Richie moved Eddie, not missing the stuffed pink dog that sat atop his dresser, old and faded and content with its wooden shelf of a home. 

Richie passed out on the couch again.

When he woke up again, it was light out, sun creeping through the ugly white blinds in Eddie’s living room, a blanket thrown over him and a small note left on the coffee table:  _ thanks for keeping me company last night :) don’t be afraid to use my apartment for whatever you need before you leave. _

He signed it with a simple  _ E _ , letter curling around itself, resembling more of a backwards number three. Richie thought for a brief moment that it might be cute if he stayed here until Eddie got home from work, actually made dinner for him this time and didn’t have a breakdown because of it— _ domestic _ . Then he decided that it wouldn’t, folded Eddie’s blanket which he was sure would be refolded with higher standards later on anyway, and left.

~*~

“Sorry I fell asleep so early,” Richie had mumbled, struggled to get it out and through the phone.

“Sorry I left you so early in the morning,” Eddie chuckled. “I had, you know, work and all that.”

“Yeah, it’s fine, Eds. I get it.”

“Come over again tonight?”

“Uh, I have work on Monday and Tuesday nights.”

“Right, right. Wednesday then? I get home at around seven.”

So he ended up back at Eddie’s again on Wednesday night, sitting strangely distant on his couch with the TV blaring, so different from the way he lay in Eddie’s lap just a couple nights ago. It put out a strange tension in the room, stale and stiff and stagnant, like they both weren’t itching to spend time together and being here with one another was a time sensitive burden. Eddie flipped through channels, cheek buried into a fist and his slender legs crossed daintily in front of him. His hovering foot bounced lightly. He still wore his clothes from work—long, dark khakis that stretched up over his ankle when he sat like he was now, a button up shirt that was less than buttoned up, half untucked and the sleeves pushed messily over his elbows. 

Eddie seemed tired, dark circles lining his under eyes like bad Halloween makeup. Then something caught him, his lips pursed together as his thumb ceased fire on the remote. Richie was too busy watching Eddie to know what was happening on the TV though. “Have you ever seen this show?” he asked, words careful and quiet. “It’s new.”

Richie turned to look at the screen. He watched as five flamboyantly gay men intruded an offensively straight man’s home, going through his warbrobe and kitchen, seemingly trying to critique his lifestyle but ultimately just playing off snarky, backhanded quips about sexuality. “No,” Richie shook his head, as the title screen played out.  _ Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.  _ He wasn’t sure how to feel about…all of it.

“Do… Do you think we act like that?” Eddie wouldn’t look at Richie, hid his face in his hand.

Richie didn’t want to look at Eddie either. “No,” he repeated. “I don’t think we do.” Richie furrowed his brows. All fun and games is what it seemed like, but he couldn’t help but notice the twist in his chest. He guessed some gay guys were overly flamboyant, feminine, outgoing, some could afford to be, were allowed to be. At the same time, he couldn't help but feel that the show was aimed towards a straight audience, for them to laugh at, to have these five men be the butt of some joke rather than a genuine reaching out. And the title alone was enough to ignite that angry feeling in his heart that seeped into the rest of him.  _ Queer _ . Back in Derry that word had bite to it, always had. “I don’t think we have to though.” He paused, then stuttered, “If we don’t want, I mean. If that’s not us…” 

At the same time, it felt strangely comforting to see five very openly gay men on national television, in charge, running the show.

“It felt like that back in Derry though, didn’t it?” Richie muttered, breath still in his lungs.

“Yeah,” Eddie laughed dryly, a genuine smile poked through, cracked his tense face. “Yeah, it felt like everyone knew.”

“Everyone  _ did _ know, Eds!” And Richie felt some strange surge of emotions inside of him instantly rush to his face, to his eyes. He wouldn’t cry though. Not again. Not tonight. Even if it wasn’t a sad, anxious cry. He didn’t want to.

Eddie turned to him now with a smile. “Only ‘cause you couldn’t keep your hands off me!”

Richie scoffed. “I very clearly remember it being the other way around!”

Eddie let out a full belly laugh before shaking his head and going back to flipping channels. Ultimately, he settled on an old, animated episode of  _ X-Men _ from 2000.

~*~

_ You know we’re small? So small. What we do doesn’t really matter because eventually we’ll be gone, and people will forget us, move on: our parents and children and grandchildren and friends. And maybe they won’t forget, but eventually they’ll be gone too, you know? Because time is all bullshit, you know, it’s not real. We don’t have any time because it's not really there, but at the same time that’s all we have. Even the Earth will die out soon enough, has an expiration date. And you’d think that’s a big deal, right? The end of Earth, the end of time, but it's not. It’s just the end of what we know. The rest of the universe, and the universe is infinitely vast, still keeps on going, chugging along. So that’s not to say that Earth’s impact on the many hasn’t mattered, but in the grand scheme of things, does it really? _

That’s what Eddie had told Richie a few nights ago, and now Richie was poorly recounting some bastardized version of it into a microphone for thousands of people to hear. He sat leaning over his desk with his face nestled into his own palm, eyes closed with a stupidly content smile on his face. Richie had no business being this in love. “I can guarantee that I did not do those words justice, but then E goes, ‘Realistically we could die tomorrow with little to no impact on the world. So the only impact we really have is on ourselves and on the people closest to us. Would you be happy with your impact?’ Like…is that not an invite to absolutely maul you right now, or am I making things up?”

“PG-13, Rich.  _ Please _ , for my sake.”

“Not to mention the absolute eloquence of this person.  _ Shit _ . When did E get this smart?” Richie sighed and opened his eyes again. “I think maybe E was always the smart one.”

“I’m not going to argue with that.” Jessi chuckled. “Anything else you need to get out before we cut for a break, lover boy?”

Richie genuinely thought. He was finding this to be extremely therapeutic—he figured all this stuff was too dumb to tell Dr. Clark, that he shouldn’t really be talking about good things to her, only the things that made him scared, anxious, made his bones itch. “Okay, okay. One last thing. I promise. Then I’ll stop torturing you all, but in my defense, you guys asked for this.”

“We get it, Richie,” Jessi rolled her eyes, sitting back in her chair with her arms crossed. Still, she held back a smile as she urged him on, nudging her headphones off just a little.

“Alright, so the other day, I went over to E’s house…apartment, whatever, and like, I’m so not proud of this, but I ended up crying for reasons we don’t need to discuss, and when I tell you—” Richie cut himself off, biting his lip, gathering his thoughts and words as everything seemed to creep and crawl around inside of him. He was coming to terms with the idea of falling in love with Eddie again, and not just the idea of him, all of him, every single part—from the way he held to Richie on the subway, to the way this neat freak, germaphobe of a man gazed at him with complete and utter fondness when in fact Richie was eating like a pig, chocolate all over his face. And, fuck, was Eddie smart, studying for a fucking PhD? Who the fuck actually does that? Smart people that’s who. And after all these years of Sonia pulling the strings in his brain, the string in his heart, after all these years of barbed wire words and fists studded with slurs, after all the years that Richie hadn’t even been there for, Eddie was still gentle as ever. He was still gentle, tender in the way he touched, in the way he cared, in the way he spoke, in the way he loved, even in the way that he hurled his  _ fuck you _ ’s and  _ asshole _ ’s at Richie. “He took care of me, like really he did, and he made me feel so safe. Like,  _ shit _ , that’s so stupid, but it’s been hook ups and one night stands for too long, and I just think it’s time. I’ve been waiting for this, and I think I’m ready for him.”

Jessi kicked him under the table, and when he glared over at her, a hand rested over his mouth and her eyebrows knit as close as they could without touching in the middle. She shook her head, making a cutting motion over her neck with her free hand. Richie only narrowed his eyes at her, and when neither of them said anything for too long, Jessi leaned over to her microphone. “We’re going to send you all to a quick music break. When we get back, we’ll all teach Richie how to take a damn hint.” She muted her microphone, and Richie did the same. “Do you really not realize what you just said?”

“I know you hate it when I’m all sappy, Jess, but—”

“No! Ugh! Richie, you just said  _ he, him,  _ and _ his _ about ten different times!”

“Oh…” He thought for a moment, thought back to what he’d just said, “Did I?”

She took a deep breath. “Yes, Richie.”

“Okay. Fuck.”

“Hey, Richie. It’s okay, yeah? It’s okay.”

Richie nodded, laughed it off, “I knew this was a bad idea, Jess. I told you I didn’t wanna do this segment.”

She scooted closer in her chair. “I know. Hey, look at me.” Jessi reached up with her hands to cup his face, careful thumbs smoothing over his cheeks. She smiled, and Richie thought it was meant to be reassuring but she just looked sad. “I love you. It’s okay.”

He nodded again, an all too familiar tightness rising in his throat.

  
  



	6. Big Things or Little Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, we're almost done with the wonderful little journey of ours *insert that cute little emoji with the emo eyes that everyone hates*.
> 
> I think this chapter feels a little bit short, but think of this as part one of the last two chapters. 
> 
> I very much love Dr. Clark's character even if she wasn't totally accurate to how therapists are supposed to be or whatever, she reminds me of the best therapist I ever went to.
> 
> CWs:  
> therapy, references to queerness being a sickness, reference to cocaine, reference to burning a bible, homophobia, AIDS, Sonia being Sonia, discussion of childhood traumas

“Why don’t you sit down, Richie?”

He shook his head, stopping momentarily to tap his foot on the carpeted floor of the dim room and then continuing his pacing back and forth along the couch’s length. “I don’t think sitting down is going to help. I just— You know— I don’t— I— _ ugh _ !”

“Richie, there’s something eating you up, and in order to get to the bottom of it, I’d like you to sit down and talk with me.”

“I— Okay, this is going to sound very strange, but I want you to know that I’m asking for a friend.”

“Of course you are, Richie. Do me a favor and take a seat, however makes you comfortable, and then I want you to take a few breaths for me.”

  
Richie nodded. “Yeah, fine. Okay. I can do that.” He flopped back onto Dr. Clark’s couch, tugged at his fingers relentlessly as he looked up at the ceiling and took several deep breaths. “Alright, so again, I’m asking for a friend, you know. They’re going through some stuff, right, and I just wanna know how to help them.”

“Naturally, as any good friend might.” She looked down through her glasses at her notepad. Dr. Clark was young, couldn’t be much older than Richie himself, so he thought he might have that, her age, to work with.

“Uh, so. My friend, he’s gay, right? Have you ever worked with anyone like that before?”

“Have  _ I _ ? Of course, I have.”   
  
“And?”

“ _ And _ ?”

“And what’s the consensus, Doc?”

She all but scoffed at him. “The consensus? As if there’s one all effective cure for depression? Anxiety? Schizophrenia? OCD? Richie, there’s no one solution for those, and no one solution for every gay person out there either.”   
  
“So,” he swallowed thick, felt the nerves reverberated down through his chest. “You’re saying that there’s like a cure, or cures or whatever for gay people? Like they need a cure for being gay? It’s like depression or anxiety or—”

“No, no. Richie, please. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying that there are many different people in this world with many different experiences and different problems and worries and insecurities. Not all men need attending to the same way just like not all gay people need attending to the same way. So when you ask me what the consensus is when I only know that you—your friend is gay, then I’m afraid I can’t give you an answer because I’ve therapized many different gay people in many different ways because they have many different needs.”

“Oh…” Neither of them spoke after a long while, so she continued.

“If you’re  _ asking _ me, however, how I would go about treating a patient who happens to gay, then the answer is that I wouldn’t know until I’ve met them.”

“So, that’s not like, a deal breaker for you? You wouldn’t try to force hetero pills onto anyone? Because that’s happened before, I mean, to my friend it has.” 

“Gosh, no. That would be absurd, Richie.” She clicked her pen along her notebook.  _ Tap, tap, tap. _ “Anyway, let’s get back to your friend. Is there a problem that he’s facing, or maybe that has come up between the two of you? Does it pertain to the fact that he’s gay?”

“Uh, alright. I think maybe I should come clean. The answers to your questions are yes, yes, and yes. But uh, I’m my friend and I’m very much struggling with the fact that I just outed myself to a couple thousand people over the radio.” Richie was being modest, it was probably closer to a few hundred thousand, probably more, he hasn’t checked their ratings in a while, that was Pete’s job.

She nodded slowly, finished scribbling. “Well, I’d like you to know that I figured as much, and I promise that I will not under any circumstances try to force uh, what did you call them,  _ hetero pills _ on you. I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. I’m not legally permitted to prescribe medication anyway, but that’s beside the point.”

“You…figured?”

“Richie,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her wiry glasses and swiftly pulling them into her lap, “you must know by now that not many men in this country are so apt to show their fondness for other men, even their friends or brothers. And what was your friend’s name?” She flipped through her notes, squinting at the thick lined paper in her lap. “Eddie, was it? You mentioned that you two were very close, and I bargained in throwing the word love out there. The amount of patients that I’ve had in the past and currently for that matter who would have scoffed at the idea, insist that love wasn’t the right word, no matter the platonics.” She sighed again, slipping her glasses back on. “It’s beautiful, Richie. Love is a beautiful thing, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

“Anyway, enough of me talking. I’m already sick of hearing my own voice. Please, Richie, tell me about what happened. At work, I’m assuming? You mentioned this happened over the radio.”

Richie nodded, took deep breaths. At the end of his session, Dr. Clark ended up giving him  _ homework _ , not her words but his. 

“I know you refuse to journal, but do me this one favor, please? I want you to write yourself a letter. Think about all the things you want out of life, big or small, what’s going to make you satisfied with being alive. It can be things you’d like to accomplish by tomorrow, next week, next month, maybe in a couple of years, maybe not up until the very moment you die. Just write yourself a letter, Richie. What’s going to make you happy?”

~*~

_ Richie and Eddie stood in front of the closed door to Eddie’s house. Richie slumped behind Eddie, hands on his shoulders and a smirk on his face as Sonia glared at him. “I promise, we’re just going to Bill’s tonight, Ma.” _

_ She pursed her lips, fists digging into her hips, knuckles pressing into the soft curves there. “You’re sure, Eddie Bear?” _

_ Richie jumped in before Eddie could, “Nah, Sonia. He’s lying, I’m actually taking him to a Manson concert. We’re gonna snort coke and watch him wipe his ass with the American flag.” Sonia puffed up at that, and Richie couldn’t help himself, “Oh,  _ no, no, no _! Sorry! I forgot, we’re actually going to a midnight showing of  _ Rocky Horror _! Gonna dress up in fishnets and makeup and everything!” Richie smiled lazily at her, completely content with the way she started to shift her weight from foot to foot, puffing out like an angry bird.  _

_ Then, without much thought, Richie took Eddie’s ear between his lips and nibbled the tender cartilage there. Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head completely, and Richie thought they might pop out all together if he decided to give Eddie’s neck a little lick. But Eddie elbowed him in the ribs, rolled his eyes. Richie knew, he could tell even though Eddie’s back was to him. “Don’t do that,” he muttered, “Ma, he’s just trying to get a rise out of you. I’ll call you when I get to Bill’s I promise that’s where we’re headed.” _

_ Sonia pursed her lips again. “You better. And if you don’t, I’ll show up at the Denbrough’s myself, understand?” _

_ “Yeah. Yeah, Ma.” Eddie turned around, pushing Richie out the front door, gaze never quite leaving his mom. “You’re an asshole, you know that?” Eddie muttered as soon as the door closed behind them. “Fucking dick. You know, she really thinks we’re gonna go watch Marilyn Manson burn a fucking Bible now, you know that right? God, it’s like you don’t think, Richie. Now, I’m going to have to come home later tonight and deal with all her bullshit.” _

_ In an off kilter cockney accent, Richie leaned in, slung an arm around Eddie’s shoulder, “Aw, come on, now! Don’t be like that, Mist-ah Spaghetti! I’ll be right there next to yeh! Yeh know I’m not leaving your side. Not now and not nev-ah!” _

_ “That’s awful, stop. You’re shit at that one.” _

_ “Aw, don’t be so mean, my mate!” _

_ “I hate you.” _

_ “Is that anyway to treat the man you’re stuck wif? Maybe for tonight or maybe for the rest of your bloody life if yeh ain’t careful!” _

_ Eddie punched him then, but not really, not really hard enough for it to matter. _

~*~

When Richie got home that Wednesday night, take out containers sitting haphazard over his counter, he sat slumped over a piece of printer paper, but he paid more attention to his fried gyoza than anything going on in his head. In between the crunches of crispied dough fried in way too much oil, the drip of a soy based sauce dampening his otherwise clean piece of paper, his phone buzzed from across the room.

Richie heard the first overly obnoxious vibration of plastic against wood and thought he might just leave it to ring but fought against his laziness, content in his chair eating greasy food and pushed himself over to the coffee table to answer the phone, flipping it open and pressing it to his ear. “Hello?” he sang, taking a seat in his barstool again, picking up his chopsticks. 

A gentle, frustrated mewl sounded from the other end, the whine your throat makes when you’re trying your best not to cry, but boils over like an old iron kettle on the stove, builds slowly before quickly becoming far too present. “Richie?”

“Eds?”

“Richie.” He sniffled a little. “Are you home? You don’t- you don’t work on Wednesdays, right? You-you— I— Can I come over, Richie?”

“Eddie,” Richie couldn’t help the sigh, “Eddie, where are you? What’s wrong, Eds?”

He hummed a little, nasally, let it turn into, “‘M at the subway station. The maps are so confusing though, Richie. How do I know where to— shit. I don’t know what I’m doing, Richie.”

“Which station are you at, Eds? Huh? What street did you enter on?”

“Same as always.”

“Alright, Eds. You can do this. You’ve done this before. You’re just working backwards now, right?”

Eddie only hummed a little, contemplating the idea of actually getting onto a train.

“You got this, Eds. I promise. You have the metro card I gave you last time, right? Just make sure you’re going south bound and get off at Bleecker street. Then wait for me there, okay? I’ll meet you, Eds.”

“Yeah, okay. I can do that. You’ll meet me, right, Richie?”   
  


“Of course. Get off at Bleecker Street and stay on the platform, okay? I’ll come get you, Eds.”

“I can do that.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I can do this, Richie.”

“See you in twenty minutes. If you need me, call me, okay?”

“Yeah,” Richie couldn’t see, but Eddie nodded, took a deep breath, “See you, Rich.”

Richie had already put a pair of sweatpants on for the night, but he didn’t bother in wasting any time on getting changed as he threw his jacket on over his sweatshirt and grabbed his wallet before running out the door. The combination of the cold and the thought of Eddie getting lost, somehow ending up all the way in Queens or the Bronx made his leg bounce on the subway, fingers dance at his side. It was overly crowded at six thirty on a Wednesday night, but Richie was more worried about Eddie having to squeeze into an overwhelmingly packed train than his own comfort.

Part of him wished he could stay on the phone with Eddie, could sit on the subway with him before meeting in the middle. What was even the point of a mobile phone if it didn’t work on the subway… 

Richie stepped off the train and saw Eddie sitting across the platform, hunched over on one of the boxy wooden benches directly under the Bleecker Street sign, blue and dirty yellowed white surrounded by filigree and pressed into grimy tile. “Eds,” Richie called out with the wave of a hand, and Eddie looked up with sad eyes and a sad smile. He stood, but Richie stopped him. “I’ll come to you, stay there.” Eddie nodded wordlessly and sat back down, hands clasped between his legs. Then Richie hurried over, ran up the stairs and then down some more. Eddie was standing when they finally met on the same platform, and even then they met in the middle, stood in front of each other waiting for the other to make a move first. And when Eddie mustered another sad little smile, Richie did the same, fidgeted with his hands, wanted to touch, comfort, run his thumbs along Eddie’s cheeks to let him know that he was okay and safe just like Eddie had done for Richie. But he wasn’t sure if that was okay, if that was the right thing to do, so he played with his own fingers and sent a smile back his way. “You okay?”

Eddie pursed his lips, eyebrows tired and big eyes lazy. “Can we just go back to yours?”

“Of course,” Richie nodded, and they waited for the next train to pull up to the platform, whiz by like it might not even stop before screeching half way back into the tunnel. Eddie didn’t even hold onto Richie on the train back to Brooklyn, only rested his sleepy head on Richie’s shoulder, but Richie held him. “Do you want to talk about it?” Richie mused as soon as he closed the door to his apartment, take out containers still sprawled out over the counter, chopsticks getting sticky grease over a paper titled  _ To Richie _ .

Eddie hummed, toed off his fancy shoes and hung up his jacket on top of the overflow of sweatshirts on Richie’s tiny coat rack. He sat himself down on Richie’s couch, cheek pressed into the backrest as he undid his tie, legs pulled up under himself. “Just had a real shitty day, you know? Sorry if I worried you, I know I overreacted.”

Richie shrugged, feeling strange in his own home, not knowing where to put his hands, where to put himself. “You don’t need to apologize, Eds. I don’t mind. You’re welcome anytime.” Phony, he sounded rehearsed, and he didn’t know why, but he hated it. “Want something to eat? I got takeout.”

Eddie lifted his head to look at Richie, then at the smattering of food containers. He nodded with a gentle smile. So Richie heated him a plate with a little bit of everything and took a seat next to him on the couch. “Sorry if you were expecting something with more meat.”

Eddie only shrugged. “You don’t eat meat?” he asked softly, stabbing a piece of broccoli with his chopsticks. 

“Not so much anymore. S’more expensive.”

Eddie smiled to himself, finished chewing, then looked up at Richie with a look he knew all too well. He mumbled, “How are you so fat if you don’t ever eat any?”

Richie laughed, loud and earnest. “I eat fish, and I eat a lot of crap like cake and ice cream and french fries…”

Eddie laughed too, softly, almost to himself. “That’s not very good for you, Richie. You know, you’re heart’ll just give—” he stopped himself, shook his head, still the smile settled carefully on his lips. He took another mouthful of food. “You’re weight suits you,” Eddie said instead, and Richie wasn’t sure how to take that.

It was quiet then, muffled street noise sounded from five floors down, through the latched windows. Eddie’s chopsticks clunked against his plate occasionally. Richie wanted to turn on the TV, to bump up the volume on the white noise, but when he thought about reaching for the remote, Eddie spoke up again.

“I have a client, and please don’t repeat this to anyone. I shouldn’t even be telling you, but I trust you.” Eddie set his mostly empty plate down on the coffee table. “She reminds me of us when we were younger. She’s only sixteen, the poor thing. Today she came to me sobbing, told me she’d kissed a girl over the weekend at a party. She was scared her parents might…” Eddie thought about his next words, or maybe he didn’t. “She was scared they might do something awful, told me about all the awful things they’d always say. You know.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her not to tell them if she thought it would be putting herself in any kind of physical danger. But I also told her that sometimes parents say stupid things when they don’t know how much it’ll really affect their children, no matter how stupid and childish that may be…even if it seems like common sense. I told her to keep herself safe.”

“I think that’s the best thing you could’ve told her. Bet you’re really good at your job, Eds. You sound like it.”

Eddie smiled again, exhausted, it resembled the soft purple hue that streaked under his eyes. “I’d like to think that I am, but…” he pursed his lips, turned over so his back pressed up against the cushion now, so he was facing straight towards the blank TV. “I think it all hit a little too close to home today, and I’m not entirely sure how to properly deal with that.”

Richie nodded, wasn’t sure how to go about comforting him with words, if words were the right way to go about doing something like that about something like this. Instead, he placed a hand just above Eddie’s knee, let it sit there a moment before squeezing a little. He then thought about how he wasn’t very good at this. 

Eddie turned to him though, smiled his tired smile before attempting to cover Richie’s hand with his own. His smaller palm, shorter fingers not quite able to get the job done, but he wrapped them tightly around Richie’s. “I’m okay. I promise. Like I said, it’s just been a long day.” He inhaled deeply then exhaled through a sigh. “You don’t have work tonight?”

Richie shook his head. “No. Do you have work tomorrow?” He wasn’t sure what quite possessed him to ask a question with such implications, thought maybe he didn’t know them until he spoke the words out loud. 

“My first appointment isn’t until noon.” Eddie turned on his side again to look at Richie, still held on firm to Richie’s hand. “We should watch a movie. I’m thinking  _ Gremlins _ maybe.”

Richie laughed with the quick wave of nostalgia that swam through him, and he stood to look through his small collection of VHS tapes and handful of DVDs. “Not sure I have  _ Gremlins _ , Eds.”

“I suppose something else will do.”

“Uh, I got  _ The Truman Show _ ,  _ Dazed and Confused _ , uh… _ Girl, Interrupted _ .”

Eddie laughed, kicked his legs out in front of him and slapped his hand over his stomach. “You  _ bought Girl, Interrupted _ ?”

“Fuck yeah I did! Don’t tell me you hate it, I thought I was really onto something here.”

Eddie laughed again, shook his head. “Are you a fifteen year old girl? Or a sex deprived teenage boy? Wait don’t answer that!” Eddie rolled over laughing again. 

“Now I’m gonna make you fuckin’ watch it.” And he did, made Eddie popcorn and listened to him complain about all the minute inaccuracies. Richie ended up eating most of the popcorn.

“I didn’t get my fucking PhD in psychology for this shit!”

“You didn’t get your fucking PhD,” Richie snorted.

“Not  _ yet _ !”

“Creative liberties, Eds. It’s a thing.” By the end of it, he made Eddie admit that it was a good movie. “It won academy awards, Eds!” And Eddie did, in fact, admit that it wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought it’d be. He even said it with pursed lips and his arms crossed, so Richie knew that meant he actually loved it.

“Not a very good date night movie though,” Eddie said casually, “kinda sad…” And Richie wanted to ask,  _ Oh, was this a date? Have we been going on dates? Are we dating? Is that what this is? _ But he felt too stupid asking any of that, too embarrassed because at nearly thirty years old, Richie can’t tell what constitutes a date unless his partner were to grab him by the ears and scream it at him. Eddie would probably laugh at him anyway, roll over with his hands on his stomach and say,  _ I was just joking. _ So Richie didn’t say anything at all, and it was quiet for a while before Eddie rolled over again. “I’m guessing trains have stopped running by now,” he sighed, credits already rolled through and the TV screen sat blank. Midnight was approaching.

Richie shook his head. “No, but you’ll be waiting too long before you catch one back to Manhattan.”

Eddie hummed. “Too bad, guess I’ll just have to stay the night.”

Richie wasn’t sure why that made him go red the way it did, made him pick at a pulling thread on the couch the way it did, made him shy away and clam up the way it did. “Guess so. You can — you can take the bed if you want.”

“Fuck you, I’m not taking your bed.”

“Well I’m not gonna let you sleep on this shitty couch.”

“You won’t even fit laying down on this couch.”

“Enough with the fat jo — ”

“It was a  _ tall _ joke, asshole!” Eddie rolled his eyes, smile threatening to rat him out anyway. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?” He stood and stretched his arms over his head. “I think I’d rather walk all the way back to eighty-sixth than go without brushing my teeth.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. Should have a couple under the sink in the bathroom.” He pointed to the second door in the kitchen, the one to the right of his bedroom. Eddie padded over, shut the door half way, and then Richie was left in his own quiet with only the distant sounds of drunken scuffles and car horns from the outside to accompany him. He listened to the old creak of the bathroom cabinet squeaking open, then a slight rummaging.

“Look at that!” Eddie called out. “Your dad would be proud!”

“Ha!” Richie fake laughed, then more to himself than anyone said, “Fuck that guy.”

The faucet sounded from the bathroom, and Richie listened as Eddie scratched away at his teeth and gums, he was an aggressive brusher, always had been. He used to make Richie brush his tongue when they were younger. “Seventy-five percent of bacteria in your mouth lives on your tongue.”   
  


“Maybe it’s supposed to be there then,” Richie would shrug. “Isn’t there such a thing as good bacteria.”   
  
“Never heard of anyone being bacteria deficient, I’ll take my chances.”

“ _ You’ve _ never heard of it, doesn’t mean it can’t happen.” Then Eddie would stall his brushing for a brief moment before punching Richie and telling him to shut the fuck up, and Richie would because he tried to get under Eddie’s skin just enough to make him blush, to get his attention, to get him to touch Richie even if it came in the form of a shove or push. But he never dug too deep, never meant to anyway.

“I think…is it alright if I go to bed?” Eddie was leaned up against the doorframe to the bathroom when Richie turned around, turned with his whole body, turned with his arm bending up over the back of the couch because his neck got stiffer and stiffer every time he fell into bed at seven am and couldn’t fall asleep until noon. “Sorry, I just…today was exhausting.”

Richie nodded, “Yeah, no problem, uh, help yourself.” He pointed to the door to Eddie’s right. Richie felt weird going to bed at the same time Eddie did, especially since they’d be sleeping in the same bed, like they’d be going to bed together, intentionally, purposefully. So he turned back around and set the volume low on the TV. 

“And I can borrow a shirt to sleep in.” It wasn’t really a question.

Richie nodded, felt his ears get hot and his neck get sticky. “Top drawer on my dresser,” then he added despite himself, “Let me know if you can’t reach.”

“Fuck off.” But there was such little bite to those words anymore. “If I wake up and you’re sleeping on that fucking couch I’ll drag you to bed myself, Tozier.”

Richie hummed, and he made the split second decision to look up at Eddie hovering over the doorknob to his bedroom, sleepy eyes usually big and round and pleading now drooping and sagging and sleep happy. “I don’t doubt you for a second, Eds.” And it felt too intimate, so he slouched back into the couch and let Eddie push the door open to claim Richie’s room as his own for the night.

So Richie sat there, pressed firmly into the old couch, and he thought about Eddie changing behind the door, looking through his drawers before kicking his pants off and shrugging out of his button down. Knowing Eddie, he’d fold them neatly, even though they’ve been worn all day and need to go in the wash anyway, and place them carefully wherever he saw fit, but definitely not on the floor. And he thought the proper response to that, to thinking about the guy you’re into getting undressed and sleeping in your bed, was to be some level of turned on, but he wasn’t. Or if he was, he wasn’t conscious of it. 

He swallowed at the warm feeling settling deep in his chest, fuzzy and tingly and it made him go numb and sweaty. Richie liked the idea more that Eddie was so apt to sleeping in Richie’s bed, in Richie’s clothes, with, ideally, Richie by his side. That was strange to him, something he hadn’t been attuned to in quite some time. He liked the idea that Eddie’s first instinct was to call Richie after a bad day, to rush right over even if the subway confused him. He liked that Eddie held his glass of wine like a cup of hot chocolate, with both hands and held close to his chest. Richie liked that when Eddie told him to fuck off, it still sounded a lot more like I love you. And he’d come to terms with himself, come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t in love with Eddie. He wasn’t. They haven’t seen each other in years and only recently spent a handful of days and nights together. But he was also coming to terms with the idea that he might be falling in love with Eddie again, quickly, face first in the mud. 

Richie’s head was lolled back into the couch when Eddie came out to wake him. He wasn’t really asleep, just getting there, and Eddie called his name a few times before slumping down next to him and curling around his hand. “I told you not to fall asleep on this fucking couch,” he mumbled sleepily into Richie’s shoulder.

Richie hummed. “You did.”

“It’s very cold in your apartment.” And when Richie didn’t answer, Eddie continued, “I don’t know how you sleep with only two blankets to keep you warm.”

Richie dropped a hand onto his stomach with a light  _ thunk _ . “It’s all the — ”

“Fuck you,” Eddie grumbled and pushed him away, standing up with his arms crossed. “You’re not fat.”

Richie blinked up at him, “Heat’s expensive, Eds,” before Eddie could toss out the words he was gearing up for. 

“Mm,” he grabbed Richie’s hand again in attempts to pull him up. “Company isn’t.”

“How very poetic.” And if they were dating, if they were together, Richie might swoon, coo at him, but he was too proud. So he stood instead and followed Eddie with an almost yawn. He saw that Eddie had taken Richie’s side of the bed, but he didn’t fight for it, he wouldn’t. 

And Richie was feeling rather self conscious, how familiar, so he kept both his sweat pants and t-shirt on before rolling into bed. “Won’t you get hot?” Eddie mumbled into a pillow.

“Thought you just said it was cold.”

Eddie shrugged and moved in a little closer. Richie took a deep breath, watched Eddie watch him. He reached out a careful hand to Richie’s cheek, seemed like he was only testing the waters. “You forgot to take your glasses off.” And Richie lifted his head, let Eddie tug them gently off his face before rolling over to fold them on top of his bedside table. Eddie allowed his hand to fall back in between them, lips pursed as he stared at the empty space there. “Are you tired?”

Richie shook his head. “I’m usually in the middle of work right about now.”

Eddie hummed, tapped at the mattress with his fingers before sliding in closer hesitantly. “Can I tell you something then?” His eyes darted up to Richie’s, big and round, eyebrows knitted before he looked back at his own hand again. 

Richie nodded. 

“I lied to you, Richie,” Eddie huffed quietly, hand stretching out carefully to Richie’s chin. And Richie panicked for a brief second, felt his heart lurch into his throat, but he pushed it down as soon as Eddie touched him, rationalized by telling himself that it couldn’t be that significant since Eddie was touching him the way he was now, thumb running over his bottom lip, fingers scratching gently into the stubble on his cheek. “I lied to you all those years ago when I told you that the first time I felt something for you was when you hugged me in the photo booth, when you kissed me a year before that in the woods, and I ran away. Truth is, I think I’ve always liked you. Always.

“You know, when we were little and you would make everyone laugh by doing something stupid, I’d try to out-stupid you, try to make everyone laugh too.” He pulled his hand away, tucked it close to his chest. “I wanted to be just like you, Richie. From the very moment I met you, I wanted to be you. The goal was always to just… _ impress _ Richie. And then I realized that I didn’t really want to  _ be you _ , I wanted to be  _ with _ you. And then I tried twice as hard to impress you.” He sighed, and Richie watched him roll onto his back. “Then I lied to you again when I told you I didn’t want to talk to you anymore, and it was your fault… 

“I guess it all comes back around, Richie, because I…I lied to you one more time when I told you that all I do is hook up anymore because I thought that would impress you too.” He bit into his bottom lip and took a long, shaky breath, hands folded over his chest, Richie watched them move up and down in staccato. “I haven’t hooked up with anyone ever, never gone through with a one night stand even if I tried. The last time I ever slept with someone was in college, with my ex and even then it wasn’t ever anything substantial, nothing that really mattered just a lot of touching and kissing. But Richie, I—

“We never talked about it.” He rolled over onto his side again, and blinked away the welling of salty tears in the corners of his eyes. “We never talked about what would happen, what  _ could _ happen if we…if we ever had sex.”

Richie waited for a long time, waited to make sure Eddie had pushed everything in him out before he said anything, “Eds, neither of us ever slept with anyone else. That wouldn’t have happened.”

“I  _ know _ , I know that now, but eighteen year old me didn’t.” Eddie looked up at the ceiling and chewed on his lip before turning back to Richie. “I want to tell you one last thing, and then all my lies will be done with. At least those that I remember anyway.”

Richie nodded.

“I went home the next morning, after Halloween, and I told my mom what happened. Not about Bowers, I never told her about Bowers. I told her about what we did in the bathroom, and I…she pulled out the newspaper clippings again, sorted through them and picked out the ones she wanted. She let me read them over, all of them, she made sure I read all of them, and then she told me that I probably had AIDS, that we should go get me tested, but she was worried about the needles they’d have to use for the bloodwork. That’s why I— It wasn’t ever your fault, Richie. It wasn’t, and I know I’ve said it a million times, but I’m sorry.”

Richie took a deep breath and reached out for one of Eddie’s shaky hands, didn’t realize how bad his own were shaking until he stretched out from the proximity of his own chest. “Everything seems like such a big deal when you're eighteen, doesn’t it?” Sure there was big stuff, but there was little stuff too, little things that needed to make themselves know, that burrowed themselves under your skin until you were forced to tend to the stupid inconvenient wound it’d created.

Eddie made a little squashed sound in the back of his throat. “You haven’t kicked me out of your bed by now so I’m assuming you don’t hate me.”

Richie hummed, watched Eddie worry his bottom lip between his teeth. “I think I still have your letter, Eds, somewhere around here.” He held onto Eddie’s hand a little tighter. “I don’t hate you, Eddie. I don’t hate you, and I’m not mad at you, not even a little bit.”

“No?”

“Nuh-uh.” And Richie got brave by some stroke of luck or misfortune, depending on how this all played out, and pulled Eddie’s hand up to his lips, held it there for a moment before kissing his knuckles carefully, like he might snap and crack and break if he wasn’t his carefullest. And Eddie didn’t pull away, didn’t knee him right in the stomach or slap him or punch him across the face, only made another one of those strange little strangled noises in his throat. This one came higher up, danced over on the back of his tongue almost like a giggle.

Richie thought about the way Eddie’s ankle touched his in the restaurant, about the way Eddie let him lay down in his lap, about the way he ran fingers through his hair and scratched so gently at the stubble on his cheeks that it tickled. This wasn’t breaking any boundaries, he told himself, this was only pushing them, and that’s okay. 

“Go to sleep, S’ghetti,” he set Eddie’s hand back down, and received a small grunt in response to the nickname. “You look sleepy.” Then he rolled over and closed his eyes, and it felt like the wrong thing to do, but he also thought that pushing the boundaries any further might result in breaking them. 

Richie didn’t sleep well…well, he slept on and off, waking up for a hot minute before falling asleep for a while. He was breaking his usual sleep schedule, and it was strange, like he was taking really long naps. When he woke up, he listened to Eddie rummaging around in his sleep. He was very particular about the way he adjusted—sat up, moved his blanket, moved his pillow, rolled over, moved his blanket again. Sometimes Richie woke up and Eddie would have his cold feet pressed up against the backs of his legs, and Richie would have to fight the urge to roll over himself and move in closer, wrap his arms and legs around Eddie and warm him up that way.

When he finally woke up for good, decided to stop trying to force himself into sleep, it was already around seven o’clock. It was odd to be pulling himself out of bed at that time instead of just falling asleep. He stood quietly, made sure not to disturb any part of Eddie’s sleep and the very certain way he apparently needed his blanket to lay. And Richie wasn’t complaining, he promises he wasn’t.

He then made a quick trip to the bathroom before looking absently through his kitchen and fridge in hopes to have something ready for Eddie to eat once he got up. It didn’t take long though, because as soon as he put the coffee on to warm up, he heard Eddie shuffle into the bathroom too. The water ran, the toilet flushed, then the water ran again. Richie mixed some eggs together in a bowl, and the bathroom door squeaked open again, the gentle drag of bare feet across the wood floor and the quiet clank of metal against ceramics. “Morning.”

Eddie paused to stretch, yawn, didn’t say anything.

“Sleep good?”

Still nothing, he shuffled some more, and disappeared in Richie’s periphery before curling his fingers around Richie’s middle, slumping lightly against his back, and he hummed. Richie had to swallow down a giggle as he set the bowl down, turning in Eddie’s arms. He looked up at Richie with half-lidded, sleepy eyes. His bottom lashes were always so long, grew straight down and dark. Richie fought the urge to reach out and touch, but Eddie beat him to it, stuck out a still sleep numb hand and scratched absently along his cheek into the overgrown stubble.

Eddie braced himself, on Richie, on the counter behind them, and it was painful how much he hesitated in reaching up for a kiss. So soft, so gentle Richie could barely feel it, but at the same time it was all he felt, the careful slot of Eddie’s lips against Richie’s bottom. It made him content and…aware knowing the intention was there, that Eddie wanted to touch too, to smother, and to love. It felt odd all the same, strange in a way that he wasn’t sure how this would end, that when you grow up you’re not supposed to be happy or in love or happy in love. All of the adults he knew in Derry were never happy for as long as he could remember, and he wasn’t sure what the cut off was, at what age or at what stage you stopped being happy, but he knew it was there, remembered Mike didn’t even have parents at all, was raised by his grandfather and never mentioned a grandmother, knew his grandfather had a deep resentment for something, for life, for living in rural Maine with the closest town being filled with a bunch of white people who got caught up all too fast in materialism and the capitalist ploy that so readily encompassed the 80s.

Eddie grew up with only two thirds a family, with a father who died all too young from some strange disease nobody ever talked about and a mother who was much more sick than his dad would ever be. Who projected all her illness in whatever way she chose to manifest it onto her young boy, swaddled him in something that only resembled love. And maybe Richie shouldn’t have teased her so much as a kid, she just needed help, was trying her best like the rest of them. 

He didn’t have the same kind of sympathy for Alvin Marsh who took and took and ate everything up around him until there was nothing left, whether it was from his daughter’s sanity or the liquor cabinet. Who, during his last drunken, waterlogged rage, slipped and fell and hit his head so hard he died on impact, leaving his only girl with both a sense of relief and jealousy that she hadn’t been the one to do it herself. 

Richie didn’t know what that was like, Went only hit him a handful of times but then again he was never around enough to actually get the chance. Maggie never said anything though, was too busy mourning the loss of a two year old little girl to pay much attention to anything  _ Richie _ , never too busy to distract herself with booze or hair or nails or gossip magazines. She stopped loving him when he was five, he thought, was just another person to cohabitate with, wasn’t capable or willing to give her love out to anyone anymore. 

The Denbroughs were kind of like that too, had kids just to say they had kids, to check off that box on the list of life. They were good at playing family though, but Richie saw through it, saw that they were really just good at cohabitating like the rest of them, thought—at age five—maybe that's just how families were supposed to be, but he only ever saw Zack and Sharon as friends, as good friends that just happened to live together and happened to have children. There was little love in the Denbrough house.

And Ben, he was sorta opposite of Eddie, of Bill, grew up with a mom they rarely heard about and a dad who probably wasn’t there. She liked to smother him too, just in different ways, fed him a meal and then fed him her scraps, loved him the only way she knew she could before letting him run off with those other young boys into the woods to get cuts and scrapes and come back soaking wet from a swim in some far off river. And she’d smother him again, the only way she knew. 

But Rabbi Uris was so regimented that even his love worked on a schedule with strict rules in both the synagogue and at home, could only show emotions a certain way and if you couldn’t do that then you shouldn’t feel at all, watched over Stan like a hawk when he could and when he couldn’t, made sure that Stan felt it anyway. Andrea was so different from Don, so much more free, Richie wasn’t sure at all how they could’ve been happy together, wondered if Judaism frowned on divorce as much as Christianity. 

So how can you grow up to be happy when you don’t know anyone who’s done so, when all that you have to look up to are parents who don’t know how to love in ways that make sense?

At twenty seven years old, he wasn’t sure how to be happy, if he was supposed to be happy when he didn’t know anyone who was and grown at the same time. And maybe there wasn’t a cut off, an age where things go to shit because he wasn’t sure that life was ever very good, but maybe he’s just looking at the world half empty, maybe he needed to know that it might be half empty, but that inherently meant that it’s also half full. That’s how half and half works, it’s never one or the other, it’s both, it’s always been both.

“Richie?”

He hummed, not sure he could bring himself to open his eyes and look down at Eddie again.

“I’d… I’m not sure this is the right time, but…” and he paused, waited for a response from Richie.  _ It never seems like the right time _ , Richie thought,  _ there never is a right time _ .  _ You just have to do whatever the fuck you want, whatever’s gonna make you happy and that would just have to be good enough. _

“Whatever you want, Eds.” He opened his eyes, carefully, slowly, and even then only managed to get them halfway, heavily lidded and open just enough to be able to see Eddie in a blurry, puppy-love-at-the-age-of-twenty-seven haze. That would have to do. He watched the heat creep up Eddie’s neck through the t-shirt he was wearing, the one he’d pulled out of Richie’s dresser last night. He’d have to give him a sweatshirt too since he’s always so cold. 

“Well, I—” He stopped, pouted his lips, looked away as if to think.

“What do you want, Eddie?”

“This.” He looked back up at Richie, delicate lashes lining his eyes gone big and round. “You. I want this with you.” Eddie’s fingers danced between his shoulder blades. “Is this, I mean, do you?” And he left the question at that, sounded like there should’ve been more, but Richie got it well enough.

“Wanna see where this goes,” Richie nodded, smiled, “think we could be happy.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of the topics and themes of this story, I'd really like to recommend Essex Hemphill's work to you all. Queer writers, especially those who write unapologetically about queer topics and our histories, have continuously been underrepresented and under-supported in the world of writing and literature. Essex Hemphill is one of my favorite poets who writes about the queer experience during the AIDS crisis, and more minutely, the queer Black experience. A lot of his work is difficult to find, as is most queer work, but it is definitely worth the search. If you can find it, American Wedding is one of my favorites :)


	7. Epilogue: Charlie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. The day has come.
> 
> This is mostly fluffy domestic reddie, so enjoy.
> 
> CWs:  
> trauma nightmares, reference to self medicating, anxiety, hints at a suicide attempt, queerphobia in the realm of adoption and IVF

When they were twenty-eight and laying in bed, Richie felt Eddie twitching, arms jerking into his chest and knees knocking his own. He did that sometimes. It was hard for Richie to sleep when Eddie did for the most part—not because he twitched, just because that wasn’t when he slept—but he still liked to lay with Eddie. When they moved in together, Richie put his shitty TV in their room, so he had something to do at night when he couldn’t sleep and Eddie had to. 

Eddie sat straight up, or at least he tried to, his previously sleeping body not having the leverage to make it all the way. “Hey,” Richie reached out for his shoulder, made him settle down again. Eddie gaped around the dark room, eyes eventually finding Richie, and he took a deep breath, nestled back into his place at Richie’s chest. Eddie always draped his arm over Richie after a nightmare, squeezed softly his fingers into Richie’s side. 

And when Richie asked him about it eventually, because it was always the same spot, always the same little kneed into that place right above his hip, Eddie simply said, “You’re the softest there,” and covered up his face with his coffee mug. Richie wanted to tell him that was cute, but he knew what would ensue:  _ I’m not fucking cute, Richie, I’m a grown man, you asshole _ . 

Richie settled his own arm around Eddie’s back, curled his other hand around Eddie’s elbow and closed his eyes. “What was it this time?” 

Eddie didn’t answer for a while, and when his breathing evened out, Richie thought he’d already fallen asleep again. “It was you this time.”

The corner of Richie’s mouth twitched a little. “I don’t like those ones.”

Eddie hummed, “Me neither.” He squeezed Richie’s side again. “It’s nothing you’ve done, Richie. I promise.” He swallowed uncomfortably, Richie could feel it in the way his throat pressed against his chest. Eddie looked up at him then, pulled his hand away from Richie’s side to reach up for his neck. “It’s because I trust you, Richie. Because I love you.” Richie felt Eddie’s breath before the warm press of his lips to his throat. “That’s how trauma works.”

“And you would know,” Richie told himself more than Eddie. “Because…you’ve studied it for the past…however many years of your life.”

Eddie settled there in the crook of his neck, taking in big pants of Richie like Richie used to with his weed, like he depended on it. Eddie made him stop—although he didn’t think  _ made _ was the right word—with the weed that is, told him he had a problem with self medicating and it was hurting more than it helped. Richie thought he was right. He felt better now anyway, at least a little bit. “Ten, Richie. Ten years.”

“Only two more to go then.”

“Probably gonna look more like three. It’s difficult to work and study at the same time.”

Richie hummed, pretended to understand when he couldn’t. Maybe it was like working three service jobs at the same time and only getting minimum wage pay out of all them. He knew what that was like. “I have them too sometimes,” he mumbled, and Eddie didn’t respond, only thumbed the stubble along his adam’s apple. “They’re different, but the same kinda. They make me feel the same. And most of the time it's a person who I don’t know, just some mean face, but sometimes it’s…my dad. Sometimes it’s you.”

Eddie sighed, kissed him again. “It’s your brain’s way of coping with anxiety when you have no conscious input. It’s normal, well…it’s normal for people like us.”

Richie thought about that, maybe for a little too long because Eddie’s thumb stilled, and his breathing fell even over Richie’s collar. “Eddie?” and he only grunted in response. Richie continued on anway, “When we were kids…I used to daydream about marrying you some day,” he huffed like it was silly, it  _ was _ silly, but Eddie hummed again, eyes closed with a pleasant smile rested on his face. “I think…I think maybe if one of us was a girl our parents might’ve done the same. Well,” Richie backtracked, “maybe not  _ our _ parents, but y’know, if we had like, normal parents they probably would have.”

Eddie smoothed his hand down Richie’s body again, found it’s comfort place at Richie’s side and squeezed, squeezed in impossibly closer.

When they were twenty-nine, Richie came home to their humble Chinatown apartment as Eddie got ready to leave. Richie ate quickly as Eddie sat delicately on the couch, and Eddie did everything delicately, turned on the TV delicately, crossed his legs delicately. Then Richie came along to fall in a heap on the couch and roll over into Eddie’s lap like a big, dumb dog. “Sleepy?” Eddie looped one of Richie’s curls on his finger, and Richie grunted in response, wrapping around Eddie’s slim hips. “We really need to figure out this whole schedule thing, Richie. I feel like I barely get to see you.”

Richie hummed. “I know, love, but I can’t just walk in and demand a different airing slot. There are intricacies to that sorta thing.”

“I know, I know. I just…” Eddie’s words faded out and never picked back up. Richie took the opportunity to open his sleepy eyes and not-so-slyly open up Eddie’s shirt, first unclasping the small button tucked into the waist of his pants and then working his way up. He peered at Eddie’s face, preparing himself for the ever so infamous yet familiar scowl, but Eddie just watched him, expression neutral until his clumsy fingers reached half way up Eddie’s shirt, and he shook his head. “I need to go to work soon, you know.”

Richie tilted his head off the back of Eddie’s thighs to glance at the clock. “It’s only seven.”

“Yes, and my first appointment is at nine today.”

“So you don’t need to leave until eight thirty.”

“Eight.”

“ _ Pft _ ,” Richie watched Eddie grimace at the way spit flung off that sound. “We got time.” He hummed into Eddie’s belly button before nosing at the line of hair that followed it. Eddie was sturdy there because he liked to use the gym in their building’s complex before he took a shower and got dressed for work in the morning. For this same reason, Richie could smell the lavender infused soap Eddie liked so much as he pressed his lips to Eddie’s stomach. 

He tensed there. “Come on, Richie.”

“What’s wrong, Eds? Scared you’re gonna get a boner from a little kissing? This isn’t 1992, Eds. No more of that hormonal teenager bullshit.”

Eddie all but snorted. “Fuck you, Richie, you don’t even want me to bring up 1992 and  _ hormonal teenage bullshit _ . And you’re two inches away from making out with my dick. Weirdo.” Eddie tugged a little at his hair. It was meant as a signal for him to get up, but Richie pouted, thought it felt more like an invitation to stay. “Come on.”

Richie grunted. “Fuck, alright.” He sat up and leaned back against the opposite end of the couch. 

Eddie clicked his tongue at him, shaking his head. “Richie, please don’t.” He began to button up his shirt again.

“Don’t what? I’m not doing anything?”

“Don’t give me that look.”   
  


“I’m not giving you any look. What look am I giving you?”

Eddie scowled over at him, all big eyes and eyelashes, furrowed brows and pursed lips. “Asshole,” he grumbled before climbing on top of Richie. “Don’t wrinkle my clothes.”

“Oh, Eddie Spaghetti,” he wrapped his arms around Eddie’s waist, pulling him in so close the scent of lavender and shampoo blended together. “I’d only dream of it.” 

Eddie snorted again and nuzzled into Richie’s neck. “Don’t let me fall asleep here.” 

“Do you not want me to let you fall asleep or do you not want me to fuck you, Eds?”

Eddie’s first instinct was to jab him in the side, but he took a deep breath and nosed further into Richie’s throat. “Is there no in between?”

“No.”

“Guess I’m just fucked then.”

“Literally or figuratively, Eds, I need to know which route we’re taking here.”

Eddie only answered with a hum, rubbing his cheek up against the stubble on Richie’s jaw like a cat. “You should grow a beard, Richie.” Completely dodging the question, the little fucker.

“Should I?” Richie played along anyway.

“Yes,  _ that _ would be sexy.”

“Would it?” Eddie only hummed in response again, and Richie couldn’t fight the urge to start humming too, humming to a tune before full on mimicking the sound of a saxophone on his own two lips. Eddie snorted out a laugh as soon as he knew where this was going, rolling over on top of Richie and pressing a hand into his chest to keep himself steady. “ _ I feel so unsure. I take your hand and lead you to the door _ .”

“Richie, you can’t sing,  _ stop _ .”

“ _ I’m never gonna dance again, guilty feet have got no rhythm. Though it’s easy to pretend, I know you’re not a fool. _ ” He then let out some  _ ohh _ ’s that had Eddie cackling.

“Richie,  _ no _ .”

“Richie,  _ yes _ ! What’s sexier than  _ Careless Whisper _ ?”

Eddie only laughed some more, losing his breath, tears pricking his eyes—it always was so easy to set him off—and when he finally settled down, he looked up at Richie, eyes so fond Richie could cry on the spot. “I have something for you. Do you want it now or later?”

“Uh, now, Eds. Is that even a question?”

“Fuck, okay.” He sat up, stood, smoothed himself out, something nervous suddenly washing over his every move, and hurried to their room. Richie listened to him rummage through their closet—well,  _ Eddie’s _ closet, it was mostly Eddie’s nice work clothes—and the smattering of  _ shit _ ’s and  _ fuck _ ’s that were thrown around before he finally yelled out. “Close your eyes!” So Richie did, and Eddie ran back into the room, grabbing Richie’s hands and placing what felt like a small box in the middle of his palms. “You might want to sit up for this.”

Richie maneuvered himself into an upright position as best he could with both eyes closed and hands occupied. 

“Please don’t hurt yourself, that would make this seriously awkward.”

The anticipation was killing him. He knew deep down that surprise presents were typically always a good thing, but the build up made his heart thrum in such a familiar, uneasy pattern. His anxiety had dissipated mostly, but from time to time his chest would spike into something disturbed. “Eds?”

“Just…” he put his hands in Richie’s again, moved things around and rearranged what little was there. “Open your eyes, okay?”

Richie took a deep breath and despite his nerves, opened his eyes to see Eddie sat in front of him, hands still hanging gingerly off of Richie’s fingers, and in his own hands was an opened small velvet box. Inside was a thick silver ring, one simple diamond embedded in the center. Richie let his mouth fall open before pursing his lips into a tight line. 

“I know…” Eddie hesitated, squeezed Richie’s hands. “I know we can’t…actually get married, you know? But I—” He seemed speechless himself, words cut short and jaw gone slack, like he was the one being ambushed with an engagement ring. “I just love you, Richie. I love you…so much, so much more than you could ever know, and even if this won’t mean anything to anyone but us, I wanna take this next step with you.”

Richie bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. 

“Say something, please? Richie?”

“Do you really think there would be an outcome of this scenario in which I don’t say yes, Eds?” He took a deep breath and with that came the waterworks. “Fuck you for making me cry.” And Eddie snorted again, leaned up to wipe away his tears and hold him tight to press his lips to Richie’s forehead before slipping the ring out of the box and onto his finger.

It just seemed like something everyone did when they got engaged—crying, he meant—as if there wasn’t months of preparation and conversation around it, but in that moment Richie kinda understood, maybe. He was a crier. He knew he was, always had been since he was little until he learned to bottle it up and then again when the anxiety set in, and now he just let it happen. He hated it sometimes, like when he was at work or in public, but he didn’t mind when he was at home with Eddie. He cried a lot, but he seemed to cry more so now because of good things which he found incredibly strange but absolutely delightful all the same, delightful in a way that something could be so incredulous, so fucking tender that it forced some visceral reaction out of you and took the form of tears. 

When they were thirty, Eddie came home quiet and sulky. Richie stood at the stove, hoping that dinner would’ve been ready by then, but he’d settle for ten minutes late. “How was your day?” Eddie said nothing in response, shouldered his way into their room to rip off his tie and pants. “Not so great then?” Richie paused, waited for an answer, and was met with again nothing but drawers slamming. He thought he heard Eddie chuck his shoes in the closet, but that couldn’t have happened. Eddie expected nothing but perfection from the organization in this little apartment. 

He pattered back into the kitchen, looked over Richie’s shoulder with pursed lips. “Really, Richie?” he huffed and slummed back onto his heels. “The kitchen’s a mess…”

Richie shrugged, “Hello to you too,” moved his pan off the burner and wrapped his arms around Eddie’s shoulders. Then he pulled away, looked down at Eddie with his brows set deep and limbs gone ridgid. “That bad, huh? What’s wrong, Eds?”

“Nothing,” he grunted, shouldered Richie away and shuffled his feet over to the kitchen table. “It’d just be nice to come home to a clean apartment is all.”

“Eds, I’ll clean up… I mean, I made the mess, right?”

Eddie clicked his tongue, rolled his eyes before letting them flutter shut. “That’s not the point.”

Richie turned back to the stove. He knew what it was like, getting mad at things that didn’t really make you mad, but those were the things that were there at the time, so it was easy to say that’s why you were mad. Dr. Clark and Eddie both told him that was a symptom of anxiety, except Richie probably wasn’t explaining it all that well. He didn’t think Eddie had anxiety though because Richie also cried a whole lot when he felt anxious, and people without anxiety cry all the time. Fuck, he could never do Eddie’s job, too complicated.

“Here you go, Sir Kaspbrak. Baked chicken breast, no bones just the way you like it, and those weird looking things that you liked from that Korean place we ate at last month.”

Eddie just stared for a moment, stared down at the plate Richie put in front of him, more like glared, scowled, more like if he stared any harder, flames would actually spew from his eyes and scorch the whole table. “Bean sprouts? You made…just…bean sprouts on their own.”

“Yeah, is that not— I found a recipe and everything. There’s garlic and sesame oil, and uh…I think it’s technically a salad? I mean, that’s—”

“It’s fine.” Eddie closed his eyes again, took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Richie nodded and listened to the harsh noises of Eddie’s silverware scraping and stomping down on his plate for the next twenty minutes. Then he cleaned. Eddie sat on the couch, flicked the TV on, flipped through channels. Richie heard Alex Trebek as he finished up the dishes and sighed, made sure it was to himself.  _ Jeopardy! _ was great and all, Eddie sure liked it, but it riled him up more often than not, like other men might get with football. Richie never understood that kind of frustration, but joined him on the couch anyway.

_ And here are the categories for the Jeopardy round. Around the World, Edible Anytime, Show Me What You Got, My “Man”!, Pregnancy and Childbirth, and Double Double Letters. And today, we start with— _

“ _ Fuck _ !”

“Eds?”

He grabbed a pillow from behind him, took a deep breath and pushed his face firmly into the center. At first Richie panicked, thought Eddie was trying to achieve something much more sinister before he screamed. The pillow didn’t do much to muffle the harsh, throat ripping noise that reverberated through the fabric. Then he dropped it into his lap, took another deep breath. Fists white knuckled around the pillow, he threw it as hard as he could at the ground. There was still something pent up in him, so he screamed again without the pillow, let out a long  _ fuck _ , and Richie really thought he going to start seeing blood too. He sounded pained, painful. 

“Eddie…” He pulled his feet up onto the couch, tucked them under himself so he could move in closer, let a hand fall carefully on Eddie’s thigh. “Hey, Eds. Come on…” 

He still held his fists trembling at his sides as he fell back into the couch. Then he faded into a sob, lifted his hands slowly to cover his face with jumping shoulders. 

“Eddies… Come on, I know it’s not  _ Jeopardy! _ that’s got you this upset. We’re only five minutes in.” Richie couldn’t tell if the sound Eddie let out came closer to just another sob or an attempted laugh. So he rearranged, took Eddie’s pliant hands away from his face then held onto him as softly as he could manage, one hand on his shoulder the other on his cheek, big, hot tears dripping between the webbing of his fingers. “Please talk to me, sweetheart.”

Eddie took a deep breath, sniffled, and crawled into Richie. They leaned back against the armrest together, Richie did most of the work and Eddie went where it was that Richie wanted to take him. Eddie found his comfort place at Richie’s side, squeezed there. 

“What’s going on, Eds? Huh? What can I do for you?”

He began to shake again, just a little shudder at first and then another, he squeezed again at Richie’s side. “I want kids, Richie.”

Richie bit down on his lip, brows furrowed. “Yeah, Eds. We…we’ve talked about this before. We’re on the same page, aren’t we? We both want kids, right? Is there a  _ but _ in there somewhere?”

“ _ No _ , Richie. I want— I want my  _ own _ kids. I want my own babies.”

Richie felt his chest dampen. “Okay, we can do that, can’t we?” His fingers settled in Eddie’s hair, scratched softly, slowly right behind his ear. “We can make that work, can’t we?”

Eddie shook his head. “Maybe a woman could, an infertile woman, but not us, Richie. They’d never have it.”

At this point, Richie wasn’t sure if he was trying to be the voice of reason or optimism, but he continued on anyway. “Well…we have friends, right? Bev? Maybe she would be willing to—”

“ _ No _ . No, Richie. I don’t— I don’t want to drag anyone else into this, I don’t want to  _ have _ to drag anyone else into this. And I don’t want  _ Bev’s _ kids. I want my kids and your kids, Richie. I want our kids. I want…someone that came from both of us.”

Richie sighed, wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, if there was anything to say to that other than  _ I’m sorry _ , but Eddie wouldn’t want to hear it. “We’ll figure something out,” he said instead, and Eddie shook his head to that too.

“No, we won’t. We can’t— It’s impossible, and I need to live with that. I just…don’t see the point in doing it any other way.”

“Oh, god… Eddie, please don’t talk like that.” Richie waited it out then, waited for Eddie to come back to his senses, waited until the puddle on his shirt turned cold and Eddie rested even on top of him. “Maybe we can just…take turns? I’ll let you go first.”

Eddie squeezed Richie tighter, let out one breathy laugh. “Thank you, you’re such a gentleman.”

“I know, that’s one of my many redeeming qualities.”

Eddie shook his head softly against Richie’s chest then pulled at the collar of his shirt to kiss his skin there. “I love you, Richie. Very much. I’m sorry for being a little bitch all night. The bean sprouts were very good.”

“You don’t need to apologize for being sad, Eds.” Richie pulled him closer. “I love you very much too, Eddie Kaspbrak.”

Eddie hummed, looked up at Richie. “Who’s name will they take?”

“Now that’s something I’ll fight you over.”

When they were thirty-one, probably closer to thirty-two—Eddie was definitely thirty-two—Eddie sat hunched over the steering wheel on I-95 going 85 as he grabbed for his coffee. It was late, already too dark out, already far beyond any kind of twilight. “Did you see that fucker?” Eddie shrieked. “He cut me the fuck off. I’m going 90 miles an hour, and this dickwad felt the need to cut me off and slam on his fucking breaks. Richie, he’s going  _ sixty _ in the fucking  _ fast _ lane, I can’t do this. The speed limit is 65, asshead! There’s barely anyone on the damn road and these are the decisions you’re making, dude. Fuck. Whatever, I’ll just ride up his ass until he moves the fuck over.”

“It’s okay, Ebbies.” Richie sat slumped over in the passenger seat, feet propped up out the window as he tried to maneuver the new smartphone Eddie got him just a couple weeks ago. The keyboard was on the screen instead of underneath it. It was very strange, and his fingers were too big for the tiny keys anyway. He wasn’t sure what made it smart, probably just a cool name for something fancy and new. “You think I can get games on this thing?”

“I dunno. Probab— Fuck! Look at this asshole! Get in your lane dickhead, you’re on the fucking highway. You have four damn lanes and choose to drive in between the goddamn lines you idiot.”

Richie sat up, wiggled his phone into his pocket, and turned to Eddie. “I would drive, but I can’t.” He never got his license, not back in Derry and not in the city, but he wasn’t sure how much that would even help.  _ The fucker just cut me off _ , would probably only turn into,  _ that fucker just cut  _ you _ off _ . Richie didn’t mind though, he was used to it. “I know you don’t like it when I get in your space while you drive, so…” He pressed his lips to his fingers, making an obnoxiously loud kissing noise so Eddie knew, and then squeezed Eddie’s cheeks. Eddie only grunted. Richie chuckled, turned over his shoulder to look in the back seat. “Don’t road-rage too loud, you’ll wake her up.”

“I’m pretty sure we know by now that Charlie will sleep through just about anything, Rich.”

“But if she wakes up, she’ll start crying. Then we’ll have to pull over.”   
  
“You can’t coddle her every time she starts crying, Richie.”

“Why not?” He picked up his head only to glance at Eddie before turning to the back seat again. “There must be something wrong if she’s crying.”

“She probably just wants attention. There’s usually not something wrong.”

“And what’s wrong with wanting attention?”

“I guess, nothing.” Eddie leaned back with a loud sigh as he made it onto the bridge. He held out his hand for Richie to take. Richie took it in both his hands, bringing Eddie’s fingers to his lips, ran them over his stubbly cheeks like Eddie always liked. Charlie wasn’t a fussy baby at all. In fact, they barely ever heard her cry unless it was a gentle grunt for food or a diaper change, but on the odd occasion in which she did cry throughout the night, Richie wanted to absolutely smother her in affection, squeeze her and kiss her and bring her back to bed, set her on his chest so she could sleep there knowing that daddy would be right there for her when she needed him. “Remember when we said we weren’t going to be our parents?”

Richie looked at Eddie as he took his hand back to make a turn. “That’s not this, Eds. Promise. Don’t overthink it too much. Just…do what feels right, you know? And hope they don’t grow up to hate you for it. That’s all you can do is the best of what you know.”

Eddie hummed, pulled into the driveway of their rental home—a friend of a friend’s small one bedroom. “Do you think she’ll like the beach?”

“I think she’ll love it, Eddies…” Richie got out of the with a stretch and a yawn. “I think we should take her to see it tonight, while nobody’s there. I think she’d like that.”

Eddie made his way around the car to Richie, stretched out his tired arms over Richie’s shoulders with a gentle smile and a nod. “Let’s go then.”

Richie held her six month frame in one big arm, let Eddie hold onto his other, and they made the sticky warm trek over to the beach. They took refuge on a bench, the ones that sit high up on the dunes so you can see the whole ocean, and Richie carefully sat Charlie up, nudged her out of the slumber that she managed to put herself back into after only the ten minutes it took to walk from the car to this bench. She blinked her eyes open to see Richie and Eddie, looked between them as she chewed on her tiny blanket and then let out the cutest laugh, just a small, wet little  _ eh-hee _ .

Then Richie held her close to his chest and pointed out at the ocean for her. She stared in awe, little lips hanging open and big eyes scanning over the horizon—Eddie’s eyes, they were Eddie’s. She laughed some more, kicked her legs excitedly over Richie’s belly, and she reached up for the moon, clasped her fingers into fists before unfurling them again like she could grab it if she really wanted. 

When they were thirty-three, Eddie was on one of his weekly cleaning sprees. Ever since they moved into their much bigger, much nicer Greenwich Village apartment, Eddie had gotten into the habit of deep cleaning one room every weekend. This week it was the bedroom. He took everything apart, his closet, their bed sheet, even pulled out Richie’s sock drawer to make sure all the pairs were together and that they sat nicely and neatly when put back. He huffed and heaved as he shoved their comforter into the washing machine then shuffled over to Richie. “I found this in your sock drawer, Rich.” Eddie sat next to Richie, draped his legs over Richie’s as he handed him a folded up piece of paper. 

Richie hummed. “It’s old homework.”

Eddie furrowed his brows. “And you kept it?”

“From my therapist.” Richie didn’t see Dr. Clark anymore. He stopped paying her visits just a couple of years ago. She told him she would be happy to continue their sessions if he really wanted, but she didn’t think it was necessary anymore. Not that he’d been magically cured or anything, just that he’d gotten better, a lot better.

And she was right, of course, just like she always was. Richie found new ways and reasons to fall in love with Eddie, different from when they were kids, different from how he thought he could love someone. He particularly loved the way Eddie’s feet were always cold, and in the middle of the night, he’d curl up and hold them to Richie’s thighs. Richie would wake up with a chill pressed to his legs or his stomach or back. He loved all of Eddie, every single part of him, even the things that he didn’t like so much, he still loved those parts too because they were Eddie parts nonetheless. He loved that Eddie felt the same about him. Richie loved Eddie and the way Charlie looked just like him, loved Eddie through Charlie, loved Charlie through Eddie.

“She told me to write a letter to myself, about what would make me happy.”

Eddie smiled, cooed into Richie’s cheek. “Oh, let me guess, it’s my name over and over and over and over…”

Richie snorted. “Fuck, Eds, you got me.” Charlie fumbled at Richie’s feet, fell into his legs and pulled at his jeans, stood, propped herself up by his shins only to fall back again with a giggle. She squealed out a happy little noise and slapped Richie’s leg again and again. He leaned down to pull her up, sit her on his thigh.

“Are we allowed to read it yet?”

“I think so.”

Charlie stood again, tugged at Richie’s hair before falling down again with a squeak. Richie unfolded the letter, and Charlie settled at the crinkle of the paper. 

_ Hey, _

_ This is a letter from your friend. I just wanted to give you a reminder to eat and drink and to make sure you keep everything down. I just wanted to tell you that it is a new day, and that the people who fucked with you years ago are gone, they can’t hurt you any more. I just wanted to tell you that the nightmares will go away, maybe not tonight or tomorrow, but they will eventually, that your heart will be whole again someday and you will find someone who touches you only with gentle hands, who speaks to you only with adoration in their voice, who looks at you with love in their eyes. _

_ This is a letter from your friend. _

_ Treat yourself with kindness and love, and others will follow in your footsteps. _

_ Love, _

_ someone who cares _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so so much for the love on this story !! :)
> 
> things that are totally canon in this fic that just didn’t make the cut for their own scenes:  
> * stan and his gf patty come to visit every year around the holidays to celebrate Hanukkah  
> * Richie makes Eddie watch TLC shit tv, like extreme cheapskates and hoarders because it makes his skin crawl—one time a couple on cheapskates shared the same piece of floss (real story) and Eddie started to cry (I almost did too)  
> * Charlie grows a little older and realizes they are trans, they tell Richie first and then Eddie  
> * Richie and Eddie have two more kids after Charlie  
> * charlie and richie want a pet, but eddie refuses to get a cat, so they get a dog (who’s small and potty trained and doesn’t shed) instead


End file.
